GfieU.P  TRAIL 


ZANE  GREY 


GIFT 


GIFT   OF 
Prof.   W.    A.    Setchell 


,75- 


THEU.   P.  TRAIL 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

ZANE   GREY 


AUTHOR  OF 

WILDFIRE,    DESERT  GOLD, 
THE  BORDER  LEGION,  ETC, 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

Published    by  Arrangement    with    Harper   &    Brother* 
Mack  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THI  U.  P.  T»AIL 


Copyright,    1918,    by    Harper    &    Brothers 

Printed   in  the   United   States  of  America 

Published  January,   1918 


DEDICATION 

TO 

RIPLEY   HITCHCOCK 

My  dear  Critic  and  Friend:  < 

In  the  light  of  my  quotation  from  Stevenson  it  may  be  pre* , 
sumptuous  for  me  to  aspire  to  tell  the  story  of  the  building  of  ' 
the  Union  Pacific  Railroad. 

But  many  a  night  by  the  camp-fire  on  the  starlit  desert 
have  I  listened  to  my  old  guide,  Al  Doyle,  while  he  recount^ 
his  experiences  as  teamster,  grader,  spiker,  and  fighter  during 
the  construction  of  that  great  work.  It  is  as  though  I  had  lived 
through  the  blood  and  lust  and  death,  the  "epical  turmoil,'1 
die  labor  of  giants,  the  heroism  and  sacrifice  of  this  wildest 
time  in  the  opening  of  the  West. 

Your  love  of  the  West  and  your  early  travels  there  and  your 
study  of  historical  frontier  days,  from  which  I  have  profited 
have  been  strong  factors  in  my  undertaking  this  book;  and 
they,  like  Stevenson's  noble  words,  have  made  me  see  the 
wonder,  the  dignity,  the  importance  of  the  subject. 

For  the  romance,  for  the  inspiration,  I  have  my  own  love 
of  wild  desert,  plain,  and  mountain;  I  have  Doyle's  stories 
of  sudden  death  and  terrible  lust  and  alluring  gold — unfor-  > 
getable  stories;  and  it  seems  as  though  all  the  labor  and  vio 
lence  and  havoc  of  those  years  have  become  embodied  in  my 
imagination. 

So  here  I  give  you  my  book — for  which  I  have  written  all 
the  others — and  I  do  it  with  hope  and  dread  and  fear  and 
yet  with  joy. 

Faithfully, 

ZANE  GREY. 

Lackawaxen,  Pi. 

M219404 


THE    U.  P.    TRAIL 


.  .  .  When  I  think  how  the  railroad  has  been  pushed 
through  this  unwatered  wilderness  and  haunt  of  savage  tribes; 
how  at  each  stage  of  the  construction  roaring,  impromptu 
cities,  full  of  gold  and  lust  and  death,  sprang  up  and  then 
died  away  again,  and  are  now  but  wayside  stations  in  the 
desert;  how  in  these  uncouth  places  Chinese  pirates  worked 
side  by  side  with  border  ruffians  and  broken  men  from  Europe, 
gambling,  drinking,  quarreling,  and  murdering  like  wolves; 
and  then  when  I  go  on  to  remember  that  all  this  epical  tur 
moil  was  conducted  by  gentlemen  in  frock-coats,  with  a  view 
to  nothing  more  extraordinary  than  a  fortune  and  a  subse* 
quent  visit  to  Paris — it  seems  to  me  as  if  this  railway  were 
the  one  typical  achievement  of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  as  if 
it  brought  together  into  one  plot  all  the  ends  of  the  world  and 
all  the  degrees  of  social  rank,  and  offered  to  some  great  writer 
the  busiest,  the  most  extended,  and  the  most  varied  subject 
for  an  enduring  literary  work.  If  it  be  romance,  if  it  be 
contrast,  if  it  be  heroism  that  we  require,  what  was  Troy 
to  this? — ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON,  in  Across  the  Plains. 


THE   U.  P.    TRAIL 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  early  sixties  a  trail  led  from  the  broad  Missouri, 
swirling  yellow  and  turgid  between  its  green-groved 
borders,  for  miles  and  miles  out  upon  the  grassy  Nebraska 
plains,  turning  westward  over  the  undulating  prairie,  with 
its  swales  and  billows  and  long,  winding  lines  of  cotton- 
woods,  to  a  slow,  vast  heave  of  rising  ground — Wyoming— 
where  the  herds  of  buffalo  grazed  and  the  wolf  was  lord 
and  the  camp-fire  of  the  trapper  sent  up  its  curling  blue 
smoke  from  beside  some  lonely  stream;  on  and  on  over 
the  barren  lands  of  eternal  monotony,  all  so  gray  and  wide 
and  solemn  and  silent  under  the  endless  sky;  on,  ever  on, 
up  to  the  bleak,  black  hills  and  into  the  waterless  gullies 
and  through  the  rocky  gorges  where  the  deer  browsed  and 
the  savage  lurked;  then  slowly  rising  to  the  pass  between 
the  great  bold  peaks,  and  across  the  windy  uplands  into 
Utah,  with  its  verdant  valleys,  green  as  emeralds,  and  its 
haze-filled  canons  and  wonderful  wind-worn  cliffs  and 
walls,  and  its  pale  salt  lakes,  veiled  in  the  shadows  of  stark 
and  lofty  rocks,  dim,  lilac-colored,  austere,  and  isolated; 
ever  onward  across  Nevada,  and  ever  westward,  up  from 
desert  to  mountain,  up  into  California,  where  the  white 
streams  rushed  and  roared  and  the  stately  pines  towered, 
and  seen  from  craggy  heights,  deep  down,  the  little  blue 
lakes  gleamed  like  gems ;  finally  sloping  to  the  great  descent, 
where  the  mountain  world  ceased  and  where,  out  beyond 
the  golden  land,  asleep  and  peaceful,  stretched  the  illimit 
able  Pacific,  vague  and  grand  beneath  the  setting  sun. 


CHAPTER  II 

DEEP  in  the  Wyoming  hills  lay  a  valley  watered  by  a 
stream  that  ran  down  from  Cheyenne  Pass;  a  band 
of  Sioux  Indians  had  an  encampment  there.  Viewed  from 
the  summit  of  a  grassy  ridge,  the  scene  was  colorful  and 
idle  and  quiet,  in  keeping  with  the  lonely,  beautiful  valley. 
Cottonwoods  and  willows  showed  a  bright  green;  the 
course  of  the  stream  was  marked  in  dark  where  the  water 
ran,  and  light  where  the  sand  had  bleached;  brown  and 
black  dots  scattered  over  the  valley  were  in  reality  grazing 
horses;  lodge-pole  tents  gleamed  white  in  the  sun,  and 
tiny  bits  of  red  stood  out  against  the  white:  lazy  wreaths 
of  blue  smoke  rose  upward. 

The  Wyoming  hills  were  split  by  many  sucn  valleys  and 
many  such  bare,  grassy  ridges  sloped  up  toward  the  moun 
tains.  Upon  the  side  of  one  ridge,  the  highest,  there  stood 
a  solitary  mustang,  haltered  with  a  lasso.  He  was  a 
ragged,  shaggy,  wild  beast,  and  there  was  no  saddle  or 
bridle  on  him,  nothing  but  the  halter.  He  was  not  grazing, 
although  the  bleached  white  grass  grew  long  and  thick 
tinder  his  hoofs.  He  looked  up  the  slope,  in  a  direction 
indicated  by  his  pointing  ears,  and  watched  a  wavering 
movement  of  the  long  grass. 

It  was  wild  up  on  that  ridge,  bare  of  everything  except 
grass,  and  the  strange  wavering  had  a  nameless  wildness  in 
its  motion.  No  stealthy  animal  accounted  for  that  trem 
bling — that  forward  undulating  quiver.  It  wavered  on  to 
the  summit  of  the  ridge. 

What  a  wide  and  wonderful  prospect  opened  up  to  view 
from  this  lofty  point!  Ridge  after  ridge  sloped  up  to  the 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

Wyoming  hills,  and  these  in  turn  raised  their  bleak,  dark 
heads  toward  the  mountains,  looming  pale  and  gray,  with 
caps  of  snow,  in  the  distance.  Out  beyond  the  ridges,  in 
distinct  in  the  glare,  stretched  an  illimitable  expanse,  gray 
and  dull — that  was  the  prairie-land.  An  eagle,  lord  of  all 
he  surveyed,  sailed  round  and  round  in  the  sky. 

Below  this  grassy  summit  yawned  a  valley,  narrow  and 
long,  losing  itself  by  turns  to  distant  east  and  west;  and 
through  it  ran  a  faint,  white,  winding  line  which  was  the 
Did  St.  Vrain  and  Laramie  Trail. 

There  came  a  moment  when  the  wavering  in  the  grass 
ceased  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  slope.  Then  it  parted 
to  disclose  the  hideous  visage  of  a  Sioux  Indian  in  war 
paint.  His  dark,  piercing,  malignant  glance  was  fixed  upon 
the  St.  Vrain  and  Laramie  Trail.  His  half-naked  body 
rested  at  ease;  a  rifle  lay  under  his  hand. 

There  he  watched  while  the  hours  passed.  The  sun 
moved  on  in  its  course  until  it  tipped  the  peaks  with  rose. 
Far  down  the  valley  black  and  white  objects  appeared, 
crawling  round  the  bend.  The  Indian  gave  an  almost 
imperceptible  start,  but  there  was  no  change  in  his  ex 
pression.  He  watched  as  before. 

These  moving  objects  grew  to  be  oxen  and  prairie- 
schooners — a  small  caravan  traveling  east.  It  wound  down 
the  trail  and  halted  in  a  circle  on  the  bank  of  a  stream. 

The  Indian  scout  slid  backward,  and  the  parted  grass, 
slowly  closing,  hid  from  his  dark  gaze  the  camp  scene  be 
low.  He  wormed  his  way  back  well  out  of  sight;  then 
rising,  he  ran  over  the  summit  of  the  ridge  to  leap  upon  his 
mustang  and  ride  wildly  down  the  slope. 


CHAPTER  HI 

BILL  HORN,  leader   of   that   caravan,  had  a  large 
amount  of  gold  which  he  was  taking  back  East.     No 
one  in  his  party,  except  a  girl,  knew  that  he  had  the  fortune. 

Horn  had  gone  West  at  the  beginning  of  the  gold  strikes, 
but  it  was  not  until  '53  that  any  success  attended  his 
labors.  Later  he  struck  it  rich,  and  in  1865,  as  soon  as 
the  snow  melted  on  the  mountain  passes,  he  got  together 
a  party  of  men  and  several  women  and  left  Sacramento. 
He  was  a  burly  miner,  bearded  and  uncouth,  of  rough  speech 
and  taciturn  nature,  and  absolutely  fearless. 

At  Ogden,  Utah,  he  had  been  advised  not  to  attempt 
to  cross  the  Wyoming  hills  with  so  small  a  party,  for  the 
Sioux  Indians  had  gone  on  the  war-path. 

"lorn  was  leading  his  own  caravan  and  finding  for  him 
self  the  trail  that  wound  slowly  eastward.  He  did  not  have 
a  scout  or  hunter  with  him.  Eastward-traveling  caravans 
were  wont  to  be  small  and  poorly  outfitted,  for  only  the 
homesick,  the  failures,  the  wanderers,  and  the  lawless 
turned  their  faces  from  the  Golden  State.  At  the  start 
Horn  had  eleven  men,  three  women,  and  the  girl.  On  the 
way  he  had  killed  one  of  the  men;  and  another,  together 
with  his  wife,  had  yielded  to  persuasion  of  friends  at  Ogden 
and  had  left  the  party.  So  when  Horn  halted  for  camp  ona 
afternoon  in  a  beautiful  valley  in  the  Wyoming  hills  there 
were  only  nine  men  with  him. 

On  a  long  journey  through  wild  country  strangers  grow 
close  together  or  far  apart.  Bill  Horn  did  not  think  much 
of  the  men  who  had  accepted  the  chance  he  offered  them, 
and  daily  he  grew  more  aloof.  They  were  not  a 

4 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

sible  crowd,  and  the  best  he  could  get  out  of  them  was  the 
driving  of  oxen  and  camp  chores  indifferently  done.  He 
had  to  kill  the  meat  and  find  the  water  and  keep  the  watch. 
Upon  entering  the  Wyoming  hills  region  Horn  showed  a  rest 
lessness  and  hurry  and  anxiety.  This  in  no  wise  affected 
the  others.  They  continued  to  be  aimless  and  careless  as 
men  who  had  little  to  look  forward  to. 

This  beautiful  valley  offered  everything  desirable  for 
a  camp  site  except  natural  cover  or  protection  in  case  of 
attack.  But  Horn  had  to  take  the  risk.  The  oxen  were 
tired,  the  wagons  had  to  be  greased,  and  it  was  needful 
to  kill  meat.  Here  was  an  abundance  of  grass,  a  clear 
brook,  wood  for  camp-fires,  and  sign  of  game  on  all  sides. 

"Haul  round — make  a  circle!'*  Horn  ordered  the  drivers 
of  the  oxen. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  given  this  particular  order, 
and  the  men  guffawed  or  grinned  as  they  hauled  the  great, 
clumsy  prairie-schooners  into  a  circle.  The  oxen  were  un 
hitched;  the  camp  duffle  piled  out;  the  ring  of  axes  broke 
the  stillness;  fires  were  started. 

Horn  took  his  rifle  and  strode  away  up  the  brook  to  dis 
appear  in  the  green  brush  of  a  ravine. 

It  was  early  in  the  evening,  with  the  sun  not  yet  out 
of  sight  behind  a  lofty  ridge  that  topped  the  valley  slope. 
High  grass,  bleached  white,  shone  brightly  on  the  summit. 
Soon  several  columns  of  blue  smoke  curled  lazily  aloft  until, 
catching  the  wind  high  up,  they  were  swept  away. 

Meanwhile  the  men  talked  at  their  tasks. 

"Say,  pard,  did  you  come  along  this  here  Laramie  Trail 
goin'  West?"  asked  one. 

"Nope.     I  hit  the  Santa  F6  Trail,"  was  the  reply. 

"How  about  you,  Jones?" 

"Sameferme." 

"Wai,"  said  another,  "I  went  round  to  California  by 
ship,  an'  I'd  hev  been  lucky  to  drown." 

"An'  now  we're  all  goin'  back  poorer  than  when  we 
started,"  remarked  a  third. 

5 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Pard,  you've  said  somethin'." 

"Wai,  I  seen  a  heap  of  gold,  if  I  didn't  find  any." 

"Jones,  has  this  here  Bill  Horn  any  gold  with  him?" 

"He  acts  like  it,"  answered  Jones.  "An*  I  heerd  he 
struck  it  rich  out  thar." 

The  men  appeared  divided  in  their  opinions  of  Bill 
Horn.  From  him  they  drifted  to  talk  of  possible  Indian 
raids  and  scouted  the  idea;  then  they  wondered  if  the 
famous  Pony  Express  had  been  over  this  Laramie  Trail; 
finally  they  got  on  the  subject  of  a  rumored  railroad  to  be 
built  from  East  to  West. 

"No  railroad  can't  be  built  over  this  trail,"  said  Jones, 
bluntly. 

"Sure  not.  But  couldn't  more  level  ground  be  dug?" 
asked  another. 

"Dug?  Across  them  Utah  deserts  an'  up  them  moun 
tains?  Hell!  Men  sure  hev  more  sense  than  thet,"  ex 
claimed  the  third. 

And  so  they  talked  and  argued  at  their  tasks. 

The  women,  however,  had  little  to  say.  One,  the  wife 
of  the  loquacious  Jones,  lived  among  past  associations  of 
happy  years  that  would  not  come  again — a  sober-faced, 
middle-aged  woman.  The  other  woman  was  younger,  and 
her  sad  face  showed  traces  of  a  former  comeliness.  They 
called  her  Mrs.  Durade.  The  girl  was  her  daughter  Allie. 
She  appeared  about  fifteen  years  old,  and  was  slight  of 
form.  Her  face  did  not  seem  to  tan.  It  was  pale.  She 
looked  tired,  and  was  shy  and  silent,  almost  ashamed. 
She  had  long,  rich,  chestnut-colored  hair  which  she  wore  in 
a  braid.  Her  eyes  were  singularly  large  and  dark,  and 
violet  in  color. 

"It's  a  long,  long  way  we  are  from  home  yet,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Jones. 

"You  call  East  home!"  replied  Mrs.  Durade,  bitterly. 

"For  land's  sake!  Yes,  I  do,"  exclaimed  the  other. 
"If  there  was  a  home  in  that  California,  I  never  saw  it. 
Tents  and  log  cabins  and  mud-holes!  Such  places  for  a 

6 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

woman  to  live.  Oh,  I  hated  that  California!  A  lot  of 
wild  men,  all  crazy  for  gold.  Gold  that  only  a  few  could 
find  and  none  could  keep !  .  .  .  I  pray  every  night  to  live  to 
get  back  home." 

Mrs.  Durade  had  no  reply;  she  gazed  away  over  the 
ridges  toward  the  east  with  a  haunting  shadow  in  her  eyes, 

Just  then  a  rifle-shot  sounded  from  up  in  the  ravine. 
The  men  paused  in  their  tasks  and  looked  rvt  one  another. 
Then  reassured  by  this  exchange  of  glances,  they  fell  to 
work  again.  But  the  women  cast  apprehensive  eyes 
around.  There  was  no  life  in  sight  except  the  grazing 
oxen.  Presently  Horn  appeared  carrying  a  deer  slung 
over  his  shoulders. 

Allie  ran  to  meet  him.  She  and  Horn  were  great  friends. 
To  her  alone  was  he  gentle  and  kind.  She  saw  him  pause 
at  the  brook,  then  drop  the  deer  carcass  and  bend  over  the 
ground,  as  if  to  search  for  something.  When  Allie  reached 
his  side  he  was  on  his  knees  examining  a  moccasin  print 
in  the  sand. 

"An  Indian  track!"  exclaimed  Allie. 

"Allie,  it  sure  ain't  anythin'  else,"  he  replied.  "Thet 
is  what  I've  been  lookin'  fer.  ...  A  day  old — mebbe  more." 

"Uncle  Bill,  is  there  any  danger?"  she  asked,  fearfully 
gazing  up  the  slope. 

"  Lass,  we're  in  the  Wyoming  hills,  an*  I  wish  to  the  Lord 
we  was  out,"  he  answered. 

Then  he  picked  up  the  deer  carcass,  a  heavy  burden, 
and  slung  it,  hoofs  in  front,  over  his  shoulders. 

"Let  me  carry  your  gun,"  said  Allie. 

They  started  toward  camp. 

"Lass,  listen,"  began  Horn,  earnestly.  "Mebbe  there's 
no  need  to  fear.  But  I  don't  like  Injun  tracks.  Not  these 
days.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  scare  this  lazy  outfit.  Mebbe 
thet  '11  make  them  rustle.  But  don't  you  be  scared." 

In  camp  the  advent  of  fresh  venison  was  hailed  with 
satisfaction. 

"Wai,  I'll  gamble  the  shot  thet  killed  this  meat  was 

7 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

heerd  by  Injuns,"  blurted  out  Horn,  as  he  deposited  his 
burden  on  the  grass  and  whipped  out  his  hunting-knife. 
Then  h  ;  glared  at  the  outfit  of  men  he  had  come  to  despise, 

"  Horn,  I  reckon  you  'pear  more  set  up  about  Injuns  than 
usual,"  remarked  Jones. 

"Fresh  Sioux  track  right  out  thar  along  the  brook." 

"No!" 

"Sioux!"  exclaimed  another. 

"Go  an'  look  fer  yourself." 

Not  a  man  of  them  moved  a  step.  Horn  snorted  his  dis 
dain  and  without  more  talk  began  to  dress  the  deer. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  set  behind  the  ridge  and  the  day 
seemed  far  spent.  The  evening  meal  of  the  travelers  was 
interrupted  when  Horn  suddenly  leaped  up  and  reached 
for  his  rifle. 

"Thet's  no  Injun,  but  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  how  he's 
comin'." 

All  gazed  in  the  direction  in  which  Horn  pointed.  A 
horse  and  rider  were  swiftly  approaching  down  the  trail 
from  the  west.  Before  any  of  the  startled  campers  recov 
ered  from  their  surprise  the  horse  reached  the  camp.  The 
rider  hauled  up  short,  but  did  not  dismount. 

"Hello!"  he  called.  The  man  was  not  young.  He  had 
piercing  gray  eyes  and  long  hair.  He  wore  fringed  gray 
buckskin,  and  carried  a  long,  heavy,  muzzle-loading  rifle. 

"I'm  Slingerland — trapper  in  these  hyar  parts,"  he  went 
on,  with  glance  swiftly  taking  in  the  group.  "Who's  bosf 
of  this  caravan?" 

"I  am — Bill  Horn,"  replied  the  leader,  stepping  out. 

"Thar's  a  band  of  Sioux  redskins  on  your  trail." 

Horn  lifted  his  arms  high.  The  other  men  uttered  ex 
clamations  of  amaze  and  dread.  The  women  were  silent, 

"Did  you  see  them?"  asked  Horn. 

"Yes,  from  a  ridge  back  hyar  ten  miles.  I  saw  them 
sneakin'  along  the  trail  an'  I  knowed  they  meant  mischief 
I  rode  along  the  ridges  or  I'd  been  hyar  sooner." 

"How  many  Injuns?" 

8 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"I  counted  fifteen.  They  were  goin'  along  slow.  Like 
as  not  they've  sent  word  fer  more.  There's  a  big  Sioux 
camp  over  hyar  in  another  valley." 

"Are  these  Sioux  on  the  war-path?" 

"I  saw  dead  an'  scalped  white  men  a  few  days  back." 
replied  Slingerland. 

Horn  grew  as  black  as  a  thundercloud,  and  he  cursed  the 
group  of  pale-faced  men  who  had  elected  to  journey  east 
ward  with  him. 

"You'll  hev  to  fight,"  he  ended,  brutally,  "an'  thet  '11  be 
some  satisfaction  to  me." 

"Horn,  there's  soldiers  over  hyar  in  camp,"  went  on 
Slingerland.  "Do  you  want  me  to  ride  after  them?" 

"Soldiers!"  ejaculated  Horn. 

"Yes.  They're  with  a  party  of  engineers  surveyin*  a 
line  fer  a  railroad.  Reckon  I  could  git  them  all  hyar  in 
time  to  save  you — if  them  Sioux  keep  comin'  slow.  ...  I'll 
go  or  stay  hyar  with  you." 

"Friend,  you  go — an'  ride  thet  hoss!" 

"All  right.  You  hitch  up  an'  break  camp.  Keep  goin' 
hard  down  the  trail,  an'  I'll  fetch  the  troops  an'  head  off 
the  redskins." 

"Any  use  to  take  to  the  hills?'  queried  Horn,  sharply. 

"I  reckon  not.  You've  no  hosses.  You'd  be  tracked 
down.  Hurry  along.  Thet's  best. . . .  An'  say,  I  see  you've 
a  young  girl  hyar.  I  can  take  her  up  behind  me." 

"Allie,  climb  up  behind  him,"  said  Horn,  motioning  to 
the  girl. 

"I'll  stay  with  mother,"  she  replied. 

"Go  child— go!"  entreated  Mrs.  Durade. 

Others  urged  her,  but  she  shook  her  head.  Horn's  big 
hand  trembled  as  he  held  it  out,  and  for  once  there  was  no 
trace  of  hardness  about  his  face. 

"Allie,  I  never  had  no  lass  of  my  own.  ...  I  wish  you'd 
go  with  him.  You'd  be  safe — an'  you  could  take  my — " 

"No!"  interrupted  the  girl. 

Slingerland  gave  her  a  strange,  admiring  glance,  then 
2  9 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

turned  his  quick  gray  eyes  upon  Horn.     "Anythin*  I  can 
take?" 

Horn  hesitated.  "No.  It  was  jest  somethin'  I  wanted 
the  girl  to  hev." 

Slingerland  touched  his  shaggy  horse  and  called  over  his 
shoulder:  "Rustle  out  of  hyar!"  Then  he  galloped  down 
the  trail,  leaving  the  travelers  standing  aghast. 

"Break  camp!"  thundered  Horn. 

A  scene  of  confusion  followed.  In  a  very  short  while  the 
prairie-schooners  were  lumbering  down  the  valley.  Twi 
light  came  just  as  the  flight  got  under  way.  The  tired 
oxen  were  beaten  to  make  them  run.  But  they  were  awk 
ward  and  the  loads  were  heavy.  Night  fell,  and  the  road 
Was  difficult  to  follow.  The  wagons  rolled  and  bumped 
dnd  swayed  from  side  to  side;  camp  utensils  and  blankets 
dropped  from  them.  One  wagon  broke  down.  The  occu 
pants,  frantically  gathering  together  their  possessions, 
ran  ahead  to  pile  into  the  one  in  front. 

Horn  drove  on  and  on  at  a  gait  cruel  to  both  men  and 
beasts.  The  women  were  roughly  shaken.  Hours  passed 
and  miles  were  gained.  That  valley  led  into  another  with 
an  up-grade,  rocky  and  treacherous.  Horn  led  on  foot 
and  ordered  the  men  to  do  likewise.  The  night  grew 
darker.  By  and  by  further  progress  became  impossible, 
for  the  oxen  failed  and  a  wild  barrier  of  trees  and  rocks 
stopped  the  way. 

Then  the  fugitives  sat  and  shivered  and  waited  lor 
dawn.  No  one  slept.  All  listened  intently  to  the  sounds 
of  the  lonely  night,  magnified  now  by  their  fears.  Horn 
strode  to  and  fro  with  his  rifle — a  grim,  dark,  silent  form. 
Whenever  a  wolf  mourned,  or  a  cat  squalled,  or  a  night  bird 
voiced  the  solitude,  or  a  stone  rattled  off  the  cliff,  the  fugi 
tives  started  up  quiveringly  alert,  expecting  every  second 
to  hear  the  screeching  yell  of  the  Sioux.  They  whispered 
to  keep  up  a  flickering  courage.  And  the  burly  Horn 
strode  to  and  fro,  thoughtful,  as  though  he  were  planning 
something,  and  always  listening. 

10 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Allie  sat  in  one  of  the  wagons  close  to  her  mother.  She 
was  wide  awake  and  not  so  badly  scared.  All  through  this 
dreadful  journey  her  mother  had  not  seemed  natural  to 
Allie,  and  the  farther  they  traveled  eastward  the  stranger 
she  grew.  During  the  ride  that  night  she  had  moaned  and 
shuddered,  and  had  clasped  Allie  close;  but  when  the 
flight  had  come  to  a  forced  end  she  grew  silent. 

Allie  was  young  and  hopeful.  She  kept  whispering  to 
her  mother  that  the  soldiers  would  come  in  time. 

"That  brave  fellow  in  buckskin — he'll  save  us,"  said 
Allie. 

"Child,  I  feel  I'll  never  see  home  again,"  finally  whis 
pered  Mrs.  Durade. 

"Mother!" 

"Allie,  I  must  tell  you — I  must!"  cried  Mrs.  Durade, 
very  low  and  fiercely.  She  clung  to  her  daughter. 

"Tell  me  what?"  whispered  Allie. 

"The  truth — the  truth!  Oh,  I've  deceived  you  all  your 
Kfe!" 

"Deceived  me!    Oh,  mother!    Then  tell  me — now." 

"Child — you'll  forgive  me — and  never — hate  me?"  cried* 
the  mother,  brokenly. 

"Mother,  how  can  you  talk  so!     I  love  you."     And  Allie 
clasped  the  shaking  form  closer.     Then  followed  a  silence, 
during  which  Mrs.  Durade  recovered  her  composure. 

"Allie,  I  ran  off  with  Durade  before  you  were  born," 
began  the  mother,  swiftly,  as  if  she  must  hurry  out  her 
secret.  "Durade  is  not  your  father.  .  .  .  Your  name  is 
Lee.  Your  father  is  Allison  Lee.  I've  heard  he's  a  rich 
man  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  want  to  get  back — to  give  you  to 
him — to  beg  his  forgiveness.  .  .  .  We  were  married  in  New 
Orleans  in  1847.  My  father  made  me  marry  him.  I  never 
loved  Allison  Lee.  He  was  not  a  kind  man — not  the  sort 
I  admired.  ...  I  met  Durade.  He  was  a  Spaniard — a  blue- 
blooded  adventurer.  I  ran  off  with  him,  We  joined  the 
gold-seekers  traveling  to  California.  You  were  born  out 
there  in  1850.  ...  It  has  been  a  hard  life.  But  I  taught 

IX 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

you — I  did  all  I  could  for  you.  I  kept  my  secret  from  you 
— and  his!  ...  Lately  I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  I've 
run  off  from  Durade." 

"Oh,  mother,  I  knew  we  were  running  off  from  himF 
cried  Allie,  breathlessly.  "And  I  know  he  will  follow  us.'1 

"Indeed,  I  fear  he  will,"  replied  the  mother.  "But 
Lord  spare  me  his  revenge!" 

"Mother!  Oh,  it  is  terrible!  ...  He  is  not  my  father 
I  never  loved  him.  I  couldn't.  .  .  .  But,  mother,  you  must 
have  loved  him!" 

"Child,  I  was  Durade's  slave,"  she  replied,  sadly. 

"Then  why  did  you  run  away?  He  was  kind — good 
to  us." 

"Allie,  listen.  Durade  was  a  gambler — a  man  crazy  to 
stake  all  on  the  fall  of  a  card.  He  did  not  love  gold.  But 
he  loved  games  of  chance.  It  was  a  terrible  passion  with 
him.  Once  he  meant  to  gamble  my  honor  away.  But 
that  other  gambler  was  too  much  of  a  man.  There  are 
gamblers  who  are  men ! .  .  .  I  think  I  began  to  hate  Durade 
from  that  time.  .  .  .  He  was  a  dishonest  gambler.  He 
made  me  share  in  his  guilt.  My  face  lured  miners  to  his 
dens.  .  .  .  My  face — for  I  was  beautiful  once!  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
sunk  so  low!  But  he  forced  me.  .  .  .  Thank  God  I  left  him 
— before  it  was  too  late — too  late  for  you." 

"Mother,  he  will  follow  us!"  cried  Allie. 

"But  he  shall  never  have  you.  I'll  kill  him  before  I 
let  him  get  you,"  replied  the  mother. 

"He'd  never  harm  me,  mother,  whatever  he  is,"  mur 
mured  Allie. 

"Child,  he  would  use  you  exactly  as  he  used  me.  He 
wanted  me  to  let  him  have  you — already.  He  wanted  to 
train  you — he  said  you'd  be  beautiful  some  day." 

"Mother!"  gasped  Allie,  "is  that  what  he  meant?" 

"Forget  him,  child.  And  forget  your  mother's  guilt!  .  .  . 
I've  suffered.  I've  repented.  ...  All  I  ask  of  God  is  to 
take  you  safely  home  to  Allison  Lee — the  father  whom 
you  have  never  known." 

ta 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

The  night  hour  before  dawn  grew  colder  and  blacker. 
A  great  silence  seemed  wedged  down  between  the  ebony 
hills.  The  stars  were  wan.  No  cry  of  wolf  or  moan  of 
wind  disturbed  the  stillness.  And  the  stars  grew  warmer. 
The  black  east  changed  and  paled.  Dawn  was  at  hand. 
An  opaque  and  obscure  grayness  filled  the  world;  all  had 
changed,  except  that  strange,  oppressive,  and  vast  silence 
of  the  wild. 

That  silence  was  broken  by  the  screeching,  blood-curdling 
yell  of  the  Sioux. 

At  times  these  bloody  savages  attacked  without  warn 
ing  and  in  the  silence  of  the  grave;  again  they  sent  out 
their  war-cries,  chilling  the  hearts  of  the  bravest.  Perhaps 
that  warning  yell  was  given  only  when  doom  was  certain. 

Horn  realized  the  dread  omen  and  accepted  it.  He 
called  the  fugitives  to  him  and,  choosing  the  best-protected 
spot  among  the  rocks  and  wagons,  put  the  women  in  the 
center. 

"  Now,  men — if  it's  the  last  for  us — let  it  be  fight !  Mebbe 
we  can  hold  out  till  the  troops  come." 

Then  in  the  gray  gloom  of  dawn  he  took  a  shovel;  pry 
ing  up  a  piece  of  sod,  he  laid  it  aside  and  began  to  dig. 
And  while  he  dug  he  listened  for  another  war-screech  and 
gazed  often  and  intently  into  the  gloom.  But  there  was 
no  sound  and  nothing  to  see.  When  he  had  dug  a  hole 
several  feet  deep  he  carried  an  armful  of  heavy  leather 
bags  and  deposited  them  in  it.  Then  he  went  back  to  the 
wagon  for  another  armful.  The  men,  gray-faced  as  the 
gloom,  watched  him  fill  up  the  hole,  carefully  replace  the 
sod,  and  stamp  it  down. 

He  stood  for  an  instant  gazing  down,  as  if  he  had  buried 
the  best  of  his  life.  Then  he  laughed  grim  and  hard. 

"There's  my  gold!  If  any  man  wins  through  this  he 
can  have  it!" 

Bill  Horn  divined  that  he  would  never  live  to  touch  his 
treasure  again.  He  who  had  slaved  for  gold  and  had 

13 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

risked  all  for  it  cared  no  more  what  might  become  of  it, 
Gripping  his  rifle,  he  turned  to  await  the  inevitable. 

Moments  of  awful  suspense  passed.  Nothing  but  the 
fitful  beating  of  hearts  came  to  the  ears  of  the  fugitives — 
ears  that  strained  to  the  stealthy  approach  of  the  red 
foe — ears  that  throbbed  prayerfully  for  the  tramp  of  the 
troopers'  horses.  But  only  silence  ensued,  a  horrible 
silence,  more  nerve-racking  than  the  clash  of  swift,  sure 
death. 

Then  out  of  the  gray  gloom  burst  jets  of  red  flame; 
rifles  cracked,  and  the  air  suddenly  filled  with  hideous 
clamor.  The  men  began  to  shoot  at  gliding  shadows, 
grayer  than  the  gloom.  And  every  shot  brought  a  volley 
in  return.  Smoke  mingled  with  the  gloom.  In  the 
slight  intervals  between  rifle-shots  there  were  swift,  rustling 
sounds  and  sharp  thud  from  arrows.  Then  the  shrill 
strife  of  sound  became  continuous;  it  came  from  all  around 
and  closed  in  upon  the  doomed  caravan.  It  swelled  and 
rolled  away  and  again  there  was  silence. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  1865,  just  after  the  war,  a  party  of  engineers  were  at 
work  in  the  Wyoming  hills  on  a  survey  as  hazardous  as  it 
was  problematical.     They  had  charge  of  the  laying  out  of 
the  Union  Pacific  Railroad. 

This  party,  escorted  by  a  company  of  United  States  troops 
under  Colonel  Dillon,  had  encountered  difficulties  almost 
insurmountable.  And  now,  having  penetrated  the  wild 
hills  to  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Rockies,  they  were  halted 
by  a  seemingly  impassable  barrier — a  gorge  too  deep  to 
fill,  too  wide  to  bridge. 

General  Lodge,  chief  engineer  of  the  corps,  gave  an 
order  to  one  of  his  assistants.  "Put  young  Neale  on  the 
job.  If  we  ever  survey  a  line  through  this  awful  place 
we'll  owe  it  to  him." 

The  assistant,  Baxter,  told  an  Irishman  standing  by 
and  smoking  a  short,  black  pipe  to  find  Neale  and  give  him 
the  chief's  orders.  The  Irishman,  Casey  by  name,  was 
raw-boned,  red-faced,  and  hard-featured,  a  man  inured  to 
exposure  and  rough  life.  His  expression  was  one  of  ex 
treme  and  fixed  good  humor,  as  if  his  face  had  been  set, 
mask-like,  during  a  grin.  He  removed  the  pipe  from  his 
lips. 

4<Gineral,  the  flag  I've  been  holdin'  fer  thot  dom'  young 
surveyor  is  the  wrong  color.  I  want  a  green  flag." 

Baxter  waved  the  Irishman  to  his  errand,  but  General 
Lodge  looked  up  from  the  maps  and  plans  before  him  with 
a  faint  smile.  He  had  a  dark,  stern  face  and  the  bearing 
of  a  soldier. 

"Casey,  you  can  have  any  color  you  like,"  he  said. 
"Maybe  green  would  change  our  luck." 

15 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Gineral,  we'll  niver  git  no  railroad  built,  an*  if  we  do 
it  '11  be  the  Irish  thot  builds  it,"  responded  Casey,  and  went 
his  way. 

Truly  only  one  hope  remained — that  the  agile  and  daring 
Neale,  with  his  eye  of  a  mountaineer  and  his  genius  for 
estimating  distance  and  grade,  might  run  a  line  around 
the  gorge. 

While  waiting  for  Neale  the  engineers  went  over  the 
maps  and  drawings  again  and  again,  with  the  earnestness 
of  men  who  could  not  be  beaten. 

Lodge  had  been  a  major-general  in  the  Civil  War  just 
ended,  and  before  that  he  had  traveled  through  this 
part  of  the  West  many  times,  and  always  with  the 
mighty  project  of  a  railroad  looming  in  his  mind.  It  had 
taken  years  to  evolve  the  plan  of  a  continental  railroad, 
and  it  came  to  fruition  at  last  through  many  men  and 
devious  ways,  through  plots  and  counterplots.  The  won 
derful  idea  of  uniting  East  and  West  by  a  railroad  origi 
nated  in  one  man's  brain;  he  lived  for  it,  and  finally  he 
died  for  it.  But  the  seeds  he  had  sown  were  fruitful. 
One  by  one  other  men  divined  and  believed,  despite  doubt 
and  fear,  until  the  day  arrived  when  Congress  put  the 
Government  of  the  United  States,  the  army,  a  group  of 
frock-coated  directors,  and  unlimited  gold  back  of  General 
Lodge,  and  bade  him  build  the  road. 

In  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  no  men  but  the 
chief  engineer  and  his  assistants  knew  the  difficulty,  the 
peril  of  that  undertaking.  The  outside  world  was  inter 
ested,  the  nation  waited,  mostly  in  doubt.  But  Lodge 
and  his  engineers  had  been  seized  by  the  spirit  of  some 
great  thing  to  be,  in  the  making  of  which  were  adventure, 
fortune,  fame,  and  that  strange  call  of  life  which  fore 
ordained  a  heritage  for  future  generations.  They  were 
grim;  they  were  indomitable. 

Warren  Neale  came  hurrying  up.  He  was  a  New-Eng- 
lander  of  poor  family,  self-educated,  wild  for  adventure,  keen 
for  achievement,  eager,  ardent,  bronze-faced,  and  keen- 

16 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

eyed,  under  six  feet  in  height,  built  like  a  wedge,  but  not 
heavy — a  young  man  of  twenty-three  with  strong  latent 
possibilities  of  character. 

General  Lodge  himself  explained  the  difficulties  of  the 
situation  and  what  the  young  surveyor  was  expected  to 
do-  Neale  flushed  with  pride;  his  eyes  flashed;  his  jaw 
set.  But  he  said  little  while  the  engineers  led  him  out  to 
the  scene  of  the  latest  barrier.  It  was  a  rugged  gorge,  old 
and  yellow  and  crumbled,  cedar-fringed  at  the  top,  bare  and 
white  at  the  bottom.  The  approach  to  it  was  through  a 
break  in  the  walls,  so  that  the  gorge  really  extended  both 
above  and  below  this  vantage-point. 

"This  is  the  only  pass  through  these  foot-hills,"  said 
Engineer  Henney,  the  eldest  of  Lodge's  corps. 

The  passage  ended  where  the  break  in  the  walls  fronted 
abruptly  upon  the  gorge.  It  was  a  wild  scene.  Only, 
inspired  and  dauntless  men  could  have  entertained  any 
hope  of  building  a  railroad  through  such  a  place.  The 
mouth  of  the  break  was  narrow;  a  rugged  slope  led  up  to 
the  left;  to  the  right  a  huge  buttress  of  stone  wall  bulged 
over  the  gorge;  across  stood  out  the  seamed  and  cracked 
cliffs,  and  below  yawned  the  abyss.  The  nearer  side  of 
the  gorge  could  only  be  guessed  at. 

Neale  crawled  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  precipice,  and, 
lying  flat,  he  tried  to  discover  what  lay  beneath.  Evident 
ly  he  did  not  see  much,  for  upon  getting  up  he  shook  his 
head.  Then  he  gazed  at  the  bulging  wall. 

"The  side  of  that  can  be  blown  off,"  he  muttered. 

"But  what's  around  the  corner?  If  it's  straight  stone 
wall  for  miles  and  miles  we  are  done,"  said  Boone,  another 
of  the  engineers. 

"The  opposite  wall  is  just  that,"  added  Henney.  "A 
straight  stone  wall." 

General  Lodge  gazed  at  the  baffling  gorge.  His  face 
became  grimmer,  harder.  "It  seems  impossible  to  go  on, 
but  we  must  go  on!"  he  said. 

A  short  silence  ensued.    The  engineers  faced  one  another 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

like  men  confronted  by  a  last  and  crowning  hindrance, 
Then  Neale  laughed.     He  appeared  cool  and  confident. 

"It  only  looks  bad,"  he  said.  "We'll  climb  to  the  top 
and  I'll  go  down  over  the  wall  on  a  rope." 

Neale  had  been  let  down  over  many  precipices  in  those 
stony  hills.  He  had  been  the  luckiest,  the  most  daring 
and  successful  of  all  the  men  picked  out  and  put  to  perilous 
tasks.  No  one  spoke  of  the  accidents  that  had  happened, 
or  even  the  fatal  fall  of  a  lineman  who  a  few  weeks  before 
had  ventured  once  too  often.  Every  rod  of  road  surveyed 
made  the  engineers  sterner  at  their  task,  just  as  it  made 
them  keener  to  attain  final  success. 

The  climb  to  the  top  of  the  bluff  was  long  and  arduous. 
'The  whole  corps  went,  and  also  some  of  the  troopers. 

"I'll  need  a  long  rope,"  Neale  had  said  to  King,  his 
lineman. 

It  was  this  order  that  made  King  take  so  much  time 
tn  ascending  the  bluff.  Besides,  he  was  a  cowboy,  used  to 
riding,  and  could  not  climb  well. 

"Wai — I — shore — rustled — all  the  line — aboot  heah,"  he 
drawled,  pantingly,  as  he  threw  lassoes  and  coils  of  rope 
>at  Neale's  feet. 

Neale  picked  up  some  of  the  worn  pieces.  He  looked 
dubious.  "Is  this  all  you  could  get?"  he  asked. 

"Shore  is.  An'  thet  includes  what  Casey  rustled  from 
the  soldiers." 

"Help  me  knot  these,"  went  on  Neale. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  this  heah  time  I'll  go  down  before  you/* 
drawled  King. 

Neale  laughed  and  looked  curiously  at  his  lineman. 
Back  somewhere  in  Nebraska  this  cowboy  from  Texas  had 
attached  himself  to  Neale.  They  worked  together;  they 
had  become  friends.  Larry  Red  King  made  no  bones  of  the 
fact  that  Texas  had  grown  too  hot  for  him.  He  had  been 
born  with  an  itch  to  shoot.  To  Neale  it  seemed  that  King 
made  too  much  of  a  service  Neale  had  rendered — the  mere 
matter  of  a  helping  hand.  Still,  there  had  been  danger. 

18 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Go  down  before  me!"  exclaimed  Neale. 

"I  reckon, "  replied  King. 

"You  will  not,"  rejoined  the  other,  bluntly.  "I  may 
aot  need  you  at  all.  What's  the  sense  of  useless  risk?'* 

"Wai,  I'm  goin' — else  I  throw  up  my  job." 

"Oh,  hell!"  burst  out  Neale  as  he  strained  hard  on  a 
knot.  Again  he  looked  at  his  lineman,  this  time  with  some 
thing  warmer  than  curiosity  in  his  glance. 

Larry  Red  King  was  tall,  slim,  hard  as  iron,  and  yet  un 
deniably  graceful  in  outline — a  singularly  handsome  and 
picturesque  cowboy  with  flaming  hair  and  smooth,  red  face 
and  eyes  of  flashing  blue.  From  his  belt  swung  a  sheath 
holding  a  heavy  gun. 

"Wai,  go  ahaid,"  added  Neale,  mimicking  his  com 
rade.  "An'  I  shore  hope  thet  this  heah  time  you-all  get 
aboot  enough  of  your  job." 

One  by  one  the  engineers  returned  from  difterent  points 
along  the  wall,  and  they  joined  the  group  around  Neale 
and  King. 

"Test  that  rope,"  ordered  General  Lodge. 

The  long  rope  appeared  to  be  amply  strong.  When( 
King  fastened  one  end  round  his  body  under  his  arms  the' 
question  arose  among  the  engineers,  just  as  it  had  arisen 
for  Neale,  whether  or  not  it  was  needful  to  let  the  lineman 
down  before  the  surveyor.  Henney,  who  superintended 
this  sort  of  work,  decided  it  was  not  necessary. 

"I  reckon  I'll  go  ahaid,"  said  King.  Like  all  Texans 
of  his  type,  Larry  King  was  slow,  easy,  cool,  careless. 
Moreover,  he  gave  a  singular  impression  of  latent  nerve, 
wildness,  violence 

There  seemed  every  assurance  of  a  deadlock  when  Gen 
eral  Lodge  stepped  forward  and  addressed  his  inquiry  to 
Neale. 

"Larry  thinks  the  rope  will  break.  So  he  wants  to  go 
first,"  replied  Neale. 

There  were  broad  smiles  forthcoming,  yet  no  one  laughed. 
This  was  one  of  the  thousands  of  strange  human  incidents 

19 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

that  must  be  enacted  in  the  building  of  the  railroad.  It 
might  have  been  humorous,  but  it  was  big.  It  fixed  the 
spirit  and  it  foreshadowed  events. 

General  Lodge's  stern  face  relaxed,  but  he  spoke  firmly. 
"Obey  orders,"  he  admonished  Larry  King. 

The  loop  was  taken  from  Larry's  waist  and  transferred 
to  Neale's.  Then  all  was  made  ready  to  let  the  daring 
surveyor  with  his  instrument  down  over  the  wall. 

Neale  took  one  more  look  at  the  rugged  front  of  the 
cliff.  When  he  straightened  up  the  ruddy  bronze  had  left 
his  face. 

"There's  a  bulge  of  rock.  I  can't  see  what's  below  it," 
he  said.  "No  use  for  signals.  I'll  go  down  the  length  of 
the  rope  and  trust  to  find  a  footing.  I  can't  be  hauled  up." 

They  all  conceded  this  silently. 

Then  Neale  sat  down,  let  his  legs  dangle  over  the  wall, 
firmly  grasped  his  instrument,  and  said  to  the  troopers  who 
held  the  rope,  "All  right!" 

They  lowered  him  foot  by  foot. 

It  was  windy  and  the  dust  blew  up  from  under  the  wall. 
Black  canon  swifts,  like  swallows,  darted  out  with  rustling 
wings,  uttering  frightened  twitterings.  The  engineers 
'leaned  over,  watching  Neale's  progress.  Larry  King  did 
not  look  over  the  precipice.  He  watched  the  slowly  slip 
ping  rope  as  knot  by  knot  it  passed  over.  It  fascinated 
him. 

"He's  reached  the  bulge  of  rock,"*  called  Baxter,  craning 
his  neck. 

"There,  he's  down — out  of  sight!"  exclaimed  Henney. 

Casey,  the  flagman,  leaned  farther  out  than  any  other. 
"Phwat  a  dom'  sthrange  way  to  build  a  railroad,  I  sez," 
he  remarked. 

The  gorge  lay  asleep  in  the  westering  sun,  silent,  full  of 
blue  haze.  Seen  from  this  height,  far  above  the  break 
where  the  engineers  had  first  halted,  it  had  the  dignity  and 
dimensions  of  a  canon.  Its  walls  had  begun  to  change 
color  in  the  sunset  light. 

20 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Foot  by  foot  the  soldiers  let  the  rope  slip,  until  probably 
two  hundred  had  been  let  out,  and  there  were  scarcely  a 
hundred  feet  left.  By  this  time  all  that  part  of  the  cable 
which  had  been  made  of  lassoes  had  passed  over;  the  re 
mainder  consisted  of  pieces  of  worn  and  knotted  and  frayed 
rope,  at  which  the  engineers  began  to  gaze  fearfully. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  said  Henney,  nervously.  "Neale 
surely  ought  to  have  found  a  ledge  or  bench  or  slope  by 
now." 

Instinctively  the  soldiers  held  back,  reluctantly  yielding 
inches  where  before  they  had  slacked  away  feet.  But 
intent  as  was  their  gaze,  it  could  not  rival  that  of  the 
cowboy. 

"Hold!"  he  yelled,  suddenly  pointing  to  where  the 
strained  rope  curved  over  the  edge  of  the  wall. 

The  troopers  held  hard.  The  rope  ceased  to  pay  out. 
The  strain  seemed  to  increase.  Larry  King  pointed  with 
a  lean  hand 

"It's  a-goin-  xo  breax!" 

His  voice,  hoarse  and  swift,  checked  the  forw-<*rti  m(ki. 
ment  of  the  engineers.     He  plunged  to  his  knees  before  the 
rope  and  reached  clutchingly,  as  if  he  wanted  to  grasp 
it,  yet  dared  not. 

"Ropes  was  my  job!    Old  an'  rotten!    It's  breakin'!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  rope  snapped.  The  troopers, 
thrown  off  their  balance,  fell  backward.  Baxter  groaned; 
Boone  and  Henney  cried  out  in  horror;  General  Lodge 
stood  aghast,  dazed.  Then  they  all  froze  rigid  in  the  posi 
tion  of  intense  listening. 

A  dull  sound  puffed  up  from  the  gorge,  a  low  crash,  then 
a  slow-rising  roar  and  rattle  of  sliding  earth  and  rock. 
It  diminished  and  ceased  with  the  hollow  cracking  of  stone 
against  stone. 

Casey  broke  the  silence  among  the  listening  men  with  a 
curse.  Larry  Red  King  rose  from  his  knees,  holding  the 
end  of  the  snapped  rope,  which  he  threw  from  him  with 
passionate  violence.  Then  with  action  just  as  violent  he 

21 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

unbuckled  his  belt  and  pulled  it  tighter  and  buckled  it 
again.  His  eyes  were  blazing  with  blue  lightning;  they 
seemed  to  accuse  the  agitated  engineers  of  deliberate  mur 
der.  But  he  turned  away  without  speaking  and  hurried 
along  the  edge  of  the  gorge,  evidently  searching  for  a  place 
to  go  down. 

General  Lodge  ordered  the  troopers  to  follow  King  and 
if  possible  recover  Neale's  body. 

"That  lad  had  a  future,"  said  old  Henney,  sadly.  "Well 
miss  him." 

Boone's  face  expressed  sickness  and  horror. 

Baxter  choked.  "Too  bad!"  he  murmured  "but  what's 
to  be  done?" 

The  chief  engineer  looked  away  down  the  shadowy  gorge 
where  the  sun  was  burning  the  ramparts  red.  To  have 
command  of  men  was  hard,  bitter.  Death  stalked  with  his 
orders.  He  foresaw  that  the  building  of  this  railroad  was 
to  resemble  the  war  in  which  he  had  sent  so  many  lads 
and  men  to  bloody  graves. 

The  engineers  descended  the  long  slope  and  returned  to 
camp,  a  mile  down  the  narrow  valley.  Fires  were  blazing; 
columns  of  smoke  were  curling  aloft;  the  merry  song  and 
reckless  laugh  of  soldiers  were  ringing  out,  so  clear  in  the 
still  air;  horses  were  neighing  and  stamping. 

Colonel  Dillon  reported  to  General  Lodge  that  one  of 
the  scouts  had  sighted  a  large  band  of  Sioux  Indians  en 
camped  in  a  valley  not  far  distant.  This  tribe  had  gone  on 
the  war-path  and  had  begun  to  harass  the  engineers. 
Neale's  tragic  fate  was  forgotten  in  the  apprehension  of 
what  might  happen  when  the  Sioux  discovered  the  signif 
icance  of  that  surveying  expedition. 

"The  Sioux  could  make  the  building  of  the  U.  P.  im 
possible,"  said  Henney,  always  nervous  and  pessimistic. 

"No  Indians — nothing  can  stop  us!"  declared  his 
chief. 

The  troopers  sent  to  follow  Larry  King  came  back  to 
camp,  saying  that  they  had  lost  him  and  that  they  could 

22 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

sot  find  any  place  where  it  was  possible  to  get  down  into 
that  gorge. 

In  the  morning  Larry  King  had  not  returned. 

Detachments  of  troopers  were  sent  in  different  direc 
tions  to  try  again.  And  the  engineers  went  out  once  more 
to  attack  their  problem.  Success  did  not  attend  the 
efforts  of  either  party,  and  at  sunset,  when  all  had  wearily 
returned  to  camp,  Larry  King  was  still  absent.  Then  he 
was  given  up  for  lost. 

But  before  dark  the  tall  cowboy  limped  into  camp,  dusty 
and  torn,  carrying  Neale's  long  tripod  and  surveying  in 
strument.  It  looked  the  worse  for  a  fall,  but  apparently 
was  not  badly  damaged.  King  did  not  give  the  troopers 
any  satisfaction.  Limping  on  to  the  tents  of  the  engineers, 
he  set  down  the  instrument  and  called.  Boone  was  the 
first  to  come  out,  and  his  summons  brought  Henney, 
Baxter,  and  the  younger  members  of  the  corps.  General 
Lodge,  sitting  at  his  camp-fire  some  rods  away,  and  bend- 
ing  over  his  drawings,  did  not  see  King's  arrival. 

No  one  detected  any  difference  in  the  cowboy,  except 
that  he  limped.  Slow  cool,  careless  he  was,  yet  somehowi 
vital  and  impelling. 

"Wai,  we  run  the  line  around — four  miles  up  the  gorge 
whar  the  crossin'  is  easy.  Only  ninety-foot  grade  to  the 
mile." 

The  engineers  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  crazy. 

"But  Neale!    He  fell — he's  dead!"  exclaimed  Henney. 

"Daid?    Wai,  no,  Neale  ain't  daid,"  drawled  Larry. 

"Where  is  he,  then?" 

"I  reckon  he's  comin*  along  back  heah." 

"Is  he  hurt?" 

"Shore.  An'  hungry,  too,  which  is  what  I  am,"  replied 
Larry,  as  he  limped  away. 

Some  of  the  engineers  hurried  out  in  the  gathering  dusk 
to  meet  Neale,  while  others  went  to  General  Lodge  with 
the  amazing  story. 

The  chief  received  the  good  news  quietly  but  with  intent 

23 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

eyes.  "  Bring  Neale  and  King  here — as  soon  as  their  needs 
have  been  seen  to,"  he  ordered.  Then  he  called  after 
Baxter,  "Ninety  feet  to  the  mile,  you  said?" 

"Ninety-foot  grade,  so  King  reported." 

"By  all  that's  lucky!"  breathed  the  chief,  as  if  his  load 
had  been  immeasurably  lightened.  "Send  those  boys 
to  me." 

Some  of  the  soldiers  had  found  Neale  down  along  the 
trail  and  were  helping  him  into  camp.  He  was  crippled 
and  almost  exhausted.  He  made  light  of  his  condition, 
yet  he  groaned  when  he  dropped  into  a  seat  before  the 
fire. 

Some  one  approached  Larry  King  to  inform  him  that 
the  general  wanted  to  see  him. 

"Wai,  I'm  hungry — an'  he  ain't  my  boss,"  replied  Larry, 
and  went  on  with  his  meal.  It  was  well  known  that  the 
Southerner  would  not  talk. 

But  Neale  talked;  he  blazed  up  in  eloquent  eulogy  of 
his  lineman;  before  an  hour  had  passed  away  every  one 
in  camp  knew  that  Larry  had  saved  Neale's  life.  Then  the 
loquacious  Casey,  intruding  upon  the  cowboy's  reserve,  got 
roundly  cursed  for  his  pains. 

"G'wan  out  among  thim  Sooz  Injuns  an*  be  a  dead 
hero,  thin,"  retorted  Casey,  as  the  cowboy  stalked  off  to 
be  alone  in  the  gloom.  Evidently  Casey  was  disappointed 
not  to  get  another  cursing,  for  he  turned  to  his  comrade, 
McDermott,  an  axman.  "Say,  Mac,  phwot  do  you  make 
of  cowboys?" 

"I  tell  ye,  Pat,  I  make  of  thim  thet  you'll  be  full  of 
bullet-holes  before  this  railroad's  built." 

"Thin,  b'gosh,  I'll  hould  drink  fer  a  long  time  yit,"  re 
plied  Casey. 

Later  General  Lodge  visited  Neale  and  received  the 
drawings  and  figures  that  made  plain  solution  of  what  had 
been  a  formidable  problem. 

"It  was  easy,  once  I  landed  under  that  bulge  of  cliff," 
said  Neale.  "There's  a  slope  of  about  forty-five  degrees 

24 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

—•not  all  rock.  And  four  miles  up  the  gorge  peters  out. 
We  can  cross.  I  got  to  where  I  could  see  the  divide — and 
oh!  there  is  where  our  troubles  begin.  The  worst  is  all 
to  come." 

"You've  said  it,"  replied  the  chief,  soberly.  "We  can't 
follow  the  trail  and  get  the  grade  necessary.  We've  got 
to  hunt  up  a  pass." 

"We'll  find  one,"  said  Neale,  hopefully. 

"Neale,  you're  ambitious  and  you've  the  kind  of  spirit 
that  never  gives  up.  I've  watched  your  work  from  the 
start.  You'll  make  a  big  position  for  yourself  with  this 
railroad,  if  you  only  live  through  the  building  of  it." 

"Oh,  I'll  live  through  it,  all  right,"  replied  Neale,  laugh 
ing.  "I'm  like  a  cat — always  land  on  my  feet — and  have 
nine  lives  besides." 

"You  surely  must!    How  far  did  you  fall  this  time?" 

"Not  far.  I  landed  in  a  tree,  where  my  instrument 
stuck.  But  I  crashed  down,  and  got  a  hard  knock  on  the 
head.  When  Larry  found  me  I  was  unconscious  and  slid 
ing  for  another  precipice." 

"That  Texan  seems  attached  to  you." 

"Well,  if  he  wasn't  before  he  will  be  now,"  said  Neale, 
feelingly.  "I'll  tell  you,  General,  Larry's  red-headed, 
a  droll,  lazy  Southerner,  and  he's  made  fun  of  by  the  men. 
But  they  don't  understand  him.  They  certainly  can't  see 
how  dangerous  he  is.  Only  I  don't  mean  that.  I  da 
mean  that  he's  true  like  steel." 

"Yes,  he  showed  that.  When  the  rope  snapped  I  made 
sure  he'd  pull  a  gun  on  us.  ...  Neale,  I  would  like  to 
have  had  you  and  Larry  Red  King  with  me  through  the 
war." 

"Thank  you,  General  Lodge. .  .  .  But  I  like  the  prospects 
now." 

"Neale,  you're  hungry  for  wild  life?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Neale,  simply. 

"I  said  as  much.  I  felt  very  much  the  same  way  when 
I  was  your  age.  And  you  like  our  prospects?  .  .  .  Well, 
3  25 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

you've  thought  things  out.  Neale,  the  building  of  the 
U.  P.  will  be  hell!" 

"General,  I  can  see  that.  It  sort  of  draws  me — two 
ways — the  wildness  of  it  and  then  to  accomplish  something." 

"My  lad,  I  hope  you  will  accomplish  something  big 
without  living  out  all  the  wildness." 

"You  think  I  might  lose  my  head?"  queried  Neale. 

"You  are  excitable  and  quick-tempered.  Do  you 
drink?" 

"  Yes — a  little,"  answered  the  young  man.  "But  I  don't 
care  for  liquor." 

"Don't  drink,  Neale,"  said  the  chief,  earnestly.  "Of 
course  it  doesn't  matter  now,  for  we're  only  a  few  men  out 
here  in  the  wilds.  But  when  our  work  is  done  over  the 
divide,  we  must  go  back  along  the  line.  You  know  ground 
has  been  broken  and  rails  laid  west  of  Omaha.  The  work's 
begun.  I  hear  that  Omaha  is  a  beehive.  Thousands  of 
idle  men  are  flocking  West.  The  work  will  be  military. 
We  must  have  the  army  to  protect  us,  and  we  will  hire 
all  the  soldiers  who  apply.  But  there  will  be  hordes  of 
others — the  dregs  of  the  war  and  all  the  bad  characters 
of  the  frontier.  They  will  flock  to  the  construction  camp. 
Millions  of  dollars  will  go  along  with  the  building.  Gold! 
. . .  Where  it's  all  coming  from  I  have  no  idea.  The  Govern 
ment  backs  us  with  the  army — that's  all.  But  the  gold 
will  be  forthcoming.  I  have  that  faith.  .  .  .  And  think, 
lad,  what  it  will  mean  in  a  year  or  two.  Ten  thousand 
soldiers  in  one  camp  out  here  in  these  wild  hills.  And 
thousands  of  others — honest  merchants  and  dishonest  mer 
chants,  whisky  men,  gamblers,  desperadoes,  bandits,  and 
bad  women.  Niggers,  Greasers,  Indians,  all  together 
moving  from  camp  to  camp,  where  there  can  be  no  law  " 

"It  will  be  great!"  exclaimed  Neale,  with  shining  eyes. 

"It  will  be  terrible,"  muttered  the  elder  man,  gravely. 
Then,  as  he  got  up  and  bade  his  young  assistant  good  night, 
the  somberness  had  returned  to  his  eyes  and  the  weight 
to  his  shoulders.  He  did  not  underestimate  his  respon- 

26 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

sibility  nor  the  nature  of  his  task,  and  he  felt  the  coining  of 
nameless  and  unknown  events  beyond  all  divining. 

Henney  was  Neale's  next  visitor.  The  old  engineer  ap 
peared  elated,  but  for  the  moment  he  apparently  forgot 
everything  else  in  his  solicitation  for  the  young  man's 
welfare. 

Presently,  after  he  had  been  reassured,  the  smile  came 
back  to  his  face. 

"The  chief  has  promoted  you,"  he  said. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Neale,  starting  up. 

"It's  a  fact.  He  just  talked  it  over  with  Baxter  and 
me.  This  last  job  of  yours  pleased  him  mightily  .  .  .  and 
so  you  go  up." 

"Go  up! ...  To  what?"  queried  Neale,  eagerly. 

"Well,  that's  why  he  consulted  us,  I  guess,"  laughed 
Henney.  "You  see,  we  sort  of  had  to  make  something  to 
promote  you  to,  for  the  present." 

"Oh,  I  see!  I  was  wondering  what  job  there  could  be," 
replied  Neale,  and  he  laughed,  too.  "What  did  the  chief, 
say?" 

"He  said  a  lot.  Figured  you'd  land  at  the  top  if  the 
U.  P.  is  ever  built.  .  .  .  Chief  engineer! .  .  .  Superintendent 
of  maintenance  of  way!" 

"Good  Lord!"  breathed  Neale.  "You're  not  in  ear 
nest?" 

"Wai,  I  shore  am,  as  your  cowboy  pard  says,"  returned 
Henney.  And  then  he  spoke  with  real  earnestness. 
"Listen,  Neale.  Here's  the  matter  in  a  nutshell.  You 
will  be  called  upon  to  run  these  particular  and  difficult 
surveys,  just  as  yesterday.  But  no  more  of  the  routine 
for  you.  Added  to  that,  you  will  be  sent  forward  and 
back,  inspecting,  figuring.  You  can  make  your  head 
quarters  with  us  or  in  the  construction  camps,  as  suits 
your  convenience.  All  this,  of  course,  presently,  when  we 
get  farther  on.  So  you  will  be  in  a  way  free — your  own 
boss  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  And  fitting  yourself  for 
that  'maintenance  of  way'  job.  In  fact,  the  chief  said 

27 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

that — he  called  you  Maintenance-of-Way  Neale.  Well,  1 
congratulate  you.  And  my  advice  is  keep  on  as  you've 
begun — go  straight — look  out  for  your  wildness  and  tem 
per That's  all.  Good  night." 

Then  he  went  out,  leaving  Neale  speechless. 

Neale  had  many  callers  that  night,  and  the  last  was 
Larry  Red  King.  The  cowboy  stooped  to  enter  the  tent. 

"Wai,  how  aboot  you-all?"  he  drawled. 

"Not  so  good,  Red,"  replied  Neale.  "My  head's  hot 
and  I've  got  a  lot  of  pain.  I  think  I'm  going  to  be  a  little 
flighty.  Would  you  mind  getting  your  blankets  and  stay 
ing  with  me  to-night?" 

"I  reckon  I'd  be  glad,"  answered  King.  He  put  a  hand 
on  Neale's  face.  "You  shore  have  fever."  He  left  the 
tent,  to  return  presently  with  a  roll  of  blankets  and  a 
canteen.  Then  he  awkwardly  began  to  bathe  Neale's 
face  with  cold  water.  There  was  a  flickering  camp-fire 
outside  that  threw  shadows  on  the  wall  of  the  tent.  By 
its  light  Neale  saw  that  King's  left  hand  was  bandaged 
and  that  he  used  it  clumsily. 

"What's  wrong  with  your  hand?"  he  queried. 

"I  reckon  nawthin'." 

"Why  is  it  bound  up,  then?" 

"Wai,  some  one  sent  thet  fool  army  doctor  to  me  an' 
he  said  I  had  two  busted  bones  in  it." 

"He  did!  I  had  no  idea  you  were  hurt.  You  never 
said  a  word.  And  you  carried  me  and  my  instrument  all 
day — with  a  broken  hand!" 

"Wai,  I  ain't  so  shore  it's  broke." 

Neale  swore  at  his  friend  and  then  he  fell  asleep.  King 
watched  beside  him,  ever  and  anon  rewetting  the  hot  brow. 

The  camp-fire  died  out,  and  at  length  the  quietness  of 
late  night  set  in.  The  wind  mourned  and  lulled  by  inter 
vals;  a  horse  thudded  his  hoofs  now  and  then;  there  were 
the  soft,  steady  footsteps  of  the  sentry  on  guard,  and  the 
wild  cry  of  a  night  bird. 

28 


CHAPTER  V 

NEALE  bad  not  been  wrong  when  he  told  the  engineers 
that  once  they  had  a  line  surveyed  across  the  gorge 
and  faced  the  steep  slopes  of  the  other  side  their  troubles 
would  be  magnified. 

They  found  themselves  deeper  in  the  Wyoming  hills,  a 
range  of  mountains  that  had  given  General  Lodge  great 
difficulty  upon  former  exploring  trips,  and  over  which  a 
pass  had  not  yet  been  discovered. 

The  old  St.  Vrain  and  Laramie  Trail  wound  along  the 
base  of  these  slopes  and  through  the  valleys.  But  that 
trail  was  not  possible  for  a  railroad.  A  pass  must  be 
found — a  pass  that  would  give  a  grade  of  ninety  feet  to  the 
mile.  These  mountains  had  short  slopes,  and  they  were 
high. 

It  turned  out  that  the  line  as  already  surveyed  through 
ravines  and  across  the  gorge  had  to  be  abandoned.  The 
line  would  have  to  go  over  the  hills.  To  that  end  the 
camp  was  moved  east  again  to  the  first  slopes  of  the 
Wyoming  hills;  from  there  the  engineers  began  to  climb. 
They  reached  the  base  of  the  mountains,  where  they  ap 
peared  to  be  halted  for  good  and  all. 

The  second  line,  so  far  as  it  went,  overlooked  the  Laramio 
Trail,  which  fact  was  proof  that  the  old  trail-finders  had 
as  keen  eyes  as  engineers. 

With  a  large  band  of  hostile  Sioux  watching  their  move* , 
ments   the   engineer   corps   found   it   necessary  to  hav©( 
the  troops  close  at  hand  all  the  time.     The  surveyors- 
climbed  the  ridges  while  the  soldiers  kept  them  in  sight 
from  below,     Day  after  day  this  futile  search  for  a  pass 

29 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

went  on.  Many  of  the  ridges  promised  well,  only  to  end 
in  impassable  cliffs  or  breaks  or  ascents  too  steep.  There 
were  many  slopes  and  they  all  looked  alike.  It  took  hard 
riding  and  hard  climbing.  The  chief  and  his  staff  were  in 
despair.  Must  their  great  project  fail  because  of  a  few 
miles  of  steep  ascent?  They  would  not  give  up. 

The  vicinity  of  Cheyenne  Pass  seemed  to  offer  encourage 
ment.  Camp  was  made  in  the  valley  on  a  creek.  From 
here  observations  were  taken.  One  morning  the  chief,  with 
his  subordinates  and  a  scout,  ascended  the  creek  and  then 
through  the  pass  to  the  summit.  Again  the  old  St.  Vrain 
and  Laramie  Trail  lay  in  sight.  And  again  the  troops  rode 
along  it,  with  the  engineers  above. 

The  chief  with  his  men  rode  on  and  up  farther  than 
usual;  farther  than  they  ought  to  have  gone  unattended. 
Once  the  scout  halted  and  gazed  intently  across  the  valley. 

"Smoke  signals  over  thar,"  he  said. 

The  engineers  looked  long,  but  none  of  them  saw  any! 
smoke.  They  moved  on.  But  the  scout  called  them 
back. 

"Thet  bunch  of  redskins  has  split  on  us.  Fust  thing 
we'll  run  into  some  of  them." 

It  was  Neale's  hawk  eye  that  first  sighted  Indians. 
"  Look !  Look !' '  he  cried,  in  great  excitement,  as  he  pointed 
^dth  shaking  finger. 

Down  a  grassy  slope  of  a  ridge  Indians  were  riding,  evi 
dently  to  head  off  the  engineers,  to  get  between  them  and 
the  troops. 

"Wai,  we're  in  fer  it  now,"  declared  the  scout.  "We 
can't  get  back  the  way  we  come  up." 

The  chief  gazed  coolly  at  the  Indians  and  then  at  the 
long  ridge  sloping  away  from  the  summit.  He  had  been 
in  tight  places  before. 

"Ride!"  was  his  order. 

"Let's  fight!"  cried  Neale. 

The  band  of  eight  men  were  well  armed  and  well  mounted, 
and  if  imperative,  could  have  held  off  the  Sioux  for  a  time. 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

But  General  Lodge  and  the  scout  headed  across  a  little 
valley  and  up  a  higher  ridge,  from  which  they  expected  to 
sight  the  troops.  They  rode  hard  and  climbed  fast,  but 
it  took  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  gain  the  ridge-top.  Sure 
enough  the  troops  were  in  sight,  but  far  away,  and  the 
Sioux  were  cutting  across  to  get  in  front. 

It  was  a  time  for  quick  judgment.  The  scout  said 
they  could  not  ride  down  over  the  ridge,  and  the  chief 
decided  they  must  follow  along  it.  The  going  got  to  be 
hard  and  rough.  One  by  one  the  men  dismounted  to  lead 
their  horses.  Neale,  who  rode  a  mettlesome  bay,  could 
scarcely  keep  up. 

"Take  mine/'  called  Larry  King,  as  he  turned  to  Neale. 

"Red,  I'll  handle  this  stupid  beast  or—" 

"Wai,  you  ain't  handlin'  him,"  interrupted  King. 
"Hosses  is  my  job,  you  know." 

Red  took  the  bridle  from  Neale  and  in  one  moment  th$ 
balky  horse  recognized  a  master  arm. 

"By  Heaven!  we've  got  to  hurry!"  called  Neale. 

It  did  seem  that  the  Indians  would  head  them  off. 
Neale  and  King  labored  over  the  rocky  ground  as  best 
they  could,  and  by  dint  of  hard  effort  came  up  with  their 
party.  The  Indians  were  quartering  the  other  ridge,  riding 
as  if  on  level  ground.  The  going  grew  rougher.  Baxter's 
horse  slipped  and  lamed  his  right  fore  leg.  Henney's  sad 
dle  turned,  and  more  valuable  time  was  lost.  All  the 
men  drew  their  rifles.  At  every  dip  of  ground  they  ex 
pected  to  come  to  a  break  that  would  make  a  stand  in 
evitable. 

From  one  point  on  tne  ridge  they  had  a  good  view  of  I 
the  troops. 

"Signal!"  ordered  the  chief. 

They  yelled  and  shot  and  waved  hats  and  scarfs.  No 
use — the  soldiers  kept  moving  on  at  a  snail  pace  far  below. 

"On — down  the  ridge!"  was  the  order. 

"Wai,  General,  thet  looks  bad  to  me,"  objected  the 
scout. 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Red  King  shoved  his  lean,  brown  hand  between  them. 
There  was  a  flame  in  his  flashing,  blue  glance  as  it  swept 
the  slowly  descending  ridge. 

"  Judgin'  the  lay  of  land  is  my  job,"  he  said,  in  his  cool 
way.  "We'll  git  down  heah  or  not  at  all." 

Neale  was  sore,  lame,  and  angry  as  well.  He  kept 
gazing  across  at  the  Sioux.  "Let's  stop — and  fight,"  he 
panted.  "We  can — whip — that  bunch." 

"We  may  have  to  fight,  but  not  yet,"  replied  the  chief. 
"Come  on." 

They  scrambled  on  over  rocky  places,  up  and  down  steep 
banks.  Here  and  there  were  stretches  where  it  was  pos 
sible  to  ride,  and  over  these  they  made  better  time.  The 
Indians  fell  out  of  sight  under  the  side  of  the  ridge,  and 
this  fact  was  disquieting,  for  no  one  could  tell  how  soon 
they  would  show  up  again  or  in  what  quarter.  This 
spurred  the  men  to  sterner  efforts. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  was  setting  and  the  predicament  of 
the  engineers  grew  more  serious.  A  shout  from  Neale, 
who  held  up  the  rear,  warned  all  that  the  Indians  had 
scaled  the  ridge  behind  them  and  now  were  in  straight- 
.away  pursuit.  Thereupon  General  Lodge  ordered  his  men 
to  face  about  with  rifles  ready.  This  move  checked  the 
Sioux.  They  halted  out  of  range. 

"They're  waitin'  fer  dark  to  set  in,"  said  the  scout. 

"Come  on!    We'll  get  away  yet,"  said  the  chief,  grimly. 

They  went  on,  and  darkness  began  to  fall  about  them. 
This  increased  both  the  difficulty  and  the  danger.  On  the 
:  other  hand,  it  enabled  them  to  try  and  signal  the  troops 
with  fire.  One  of  them  would  hurry  ahead  and  build  a 
fire  while  the  others  held  back  to  check  the  Indians  if 
they  appeared.  And  at  length  their  signals  were  answered 
by  the  troops.  Thus  encouraged,  the  little  band  of  des 
perate  men  plunged  on  down  the  slope.  And  just  when 
night  set  in  black — the  fateful  hour  that  would  have  pre 
cipitated  the  Indian  attack — the  troops  met  the  engineers 
on  the  slope.  The  Indians  faded  away  into  the  gloom 

32 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

without  firing  a  shot.  There  was  a  general  rejoicing. 
Neale,  however,  complained  that  he  would  rather  have 
fought  them. 

"Wai,  I  shore  was  achin'  fer  trouble,"  drawled  his 
faithful  ally,  King. 

The  flagman,  Casey,  removed  his  black  pipe  to  remark, 
"All  thet  cloimb  without  a  f oight !" 

General  Lodge's  first  word  to  Colonel  Dillon  was  evi 
dently  inspired  by  Casey's  remark. 

"Colonel,  did  you  have  steep  work  getting  up  to  us  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  straight  up  out  of  the  valley,"  was  the 
rejoinder. 

But  General  Lodge  did  not  go  back  to  camp  by  this 
short  cut  down  the  valley.  He  kept  along  the  ridge,  and 
it  led  for  miles  slowly  down  to  the  plain.  There  in  the 
starlight  he  faced  his  assistants  with  singular  fire  and 
earnestness. 

"Men,  we've  had  a  bad  scare  a&d  a  hard  jaunt,  but 
we've  found  our  pass  over  the  Wyoming  hills.  To-mor 
row  we'll  run  a  line  up  that  long  ridge.  We'll  name  it 
Sherman  Pass.  .  .  .  Thanks  to  those  red  devils!" 

On  the  following  morning  Neale  was  awakened  from 
a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep  by  a  hard  dig  in  the  ribs. 

"Neale — air  you  daid?"  Larry  was  saying.  "Wake 
up!  An' listen  to  thet." 

Neale  heard  the  clear,  ringing  notes  of  a  bugle-call. 
He  rolled  out  of  his  blankets.  "What's  up,  Red?"  he 
cried,  reaching  for  his  boots. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  them  Injuns,"  drawled  Red. 

It  was  just  daylight.  They  found  the  camp  astir — * 
troopers  running  for  horses,  saddles,  guns. 

"Red,  you  get  our  horses  and  I'll  see  what's  up,"  cried 
Neale. 

The  cowboy  strode  off,  hitching  at  his  belt.  Neale  ran 
forward  into  camp.  He  encountered  Lieutenant  Leslie, 
whom  he  knew  well,  and  who  told  him  a  scout  had  come 

33 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

in  with  news  of  a  threatened  raid;  Colonel  Dillon  had  or* 
dered  out  a  detachment  of  troopers. 

"I'm  going,"  shouted  Neale.     "Where's  that  scout?" 

Neale  soon  descried  a  buckskin-clad  figure,  and  he  made 
toward  it.  The  man,  evidently  a  trapper  or  hunter,  car 
ried  a  long,  brown  rifle,  and  he  had  a  powder-horn  and 
bullet-pouch  slung  over  his  shoulder.  There  was  a  knife 
in  his  belt.  Neale  went  directly  up  to  the  man. 

"My  name's  Neale,"  he  said.     "Can  I  be  of  any  help?" 

He  encountered  a  pair  of  penetrating  gray  eyes. 

"My  name's  Slingerland,"  replied  the  other,  as  he  of 
fered  his  hand.  "Are  you  an  officer?" 

"No.  I'm  a  surveyor.  But  I  can  ride  and  sboot. 
I've  a  cowboy  with  me — a  Texan.  He'll  go.  What's 
happened?" 

"Wai,  I  ain't  sure  yet.  But  I  fear  the  wust.  I  got 
wind  of  some  Sioux  thet  was  trailin'  some  prairie-schooners 
up  in  the  hills.  I  warned  the  boss — told  him  to  break  camp 
an'  run.  Then  I  come  fer  the  troops.  But  the  troops 
had  changed  camp  an*  I  jest  found  them.  Reckon  we'll 
be  too  late." 

"Was  it  a  caravan  ?"  inquired  Neale,  intensely  interested. 

"Six  wagons.  Only  a  few  men.  Two  wimmen.  An' 
one  girl." 

"Girl!"  exclaimed  Neale. 

"Yes.  I  reckon  she  was  about  sixteen.  A  pretty  girl 
with  big,  soft  eyes.  I  offered  to  take  her  up  behind  me 
on  my  hoss.  An'  they  all  wanted  her  to  come.  But  she 
wouldn't.  ...  I  hate  to  think — " 

Slingerland  did  not  finish  his  thought  aloud.  Just  then 
Larry  rode  up,  leading  Neale's  horse.  Slingerland  eyed  the 
lithe  cowboy. 

"Howdy!"  drawled  Larry.  He  did  not  seem  curious  or 
eager,  and  his  cool,  easy,  reckless  air  was  in  sharp  contrast 
to  Neale's  fiery  daring. 

"Red,  you  got  the  rifles,  I  see,"  said  Neale. 
"Sure,  an'  I  rustled  some  biscuits." 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

In  a  few  moments  the  troops  were  mounted  and  ready. 
Slingerland  led  them  up  the  valley  at  a  rapid  trot  and  soon 
started  to  climb.  When  he  reached  the  top  he  worked  up 
for  a  mile  and  then,  crossing  over,  went  down  into  another 
valley.  Up  and  down  he  led,  over  ridge  after  ridge,  until 
a  point  was  reached  where  the  St.  Vram  and  Laramie 
Trail  could  be  seen  in  the  valley  below.  From  here  he  led 
them  along  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  just  as  the  sun  rose 
over  the  hills  he  pointed  down  to  a  spot  where  the  caravan 
had  been  encamped.  They  descended  into  this  valley. 
There  in  the  trail  were  fresh  tracks  of  unshod  horses. 

"We  ain't  fur  behind,  but  I  reckon  fur  enough  to  be 
too  late,"  said  Slingerland.  And  he  clenched  a  big  fist. 

On  this  level  trail  he  led  at  a  gallop,  with  the  troops  be 
hind  in  a  clattering  roar.  They  made  short  work  of  that 
valley.  Then  rougher  ground  hindered  speedy  advance. 

Presently  Slingerland  sighted  something  that  made 
him  start.  It  proved  to  be  the  charred  skeleton  of  a 
prairie-schooner.  The  oxen  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Then  they  saw  that  a  little  beyond  blankets  and  camp 
utensils  littered  the  trail.  Still  farther  on  the  broad  wheel- 
tracks  sheered  off  the  road,  where  the  hurried  drivers  had 
missed  the  way  in  the  dark.  This  was  open,  undulating 
ground,  rock-strewn  and  overgrown  with  brush.  A  ledge 
of  rock,  a  few  scraggy  trees,  and  more  black,  charred  re 
mains  of  wagons  marked  the  final  scene  of  the  massacre. 

Neale  was  the  first  man  who  dismounted,  and  Larry 
King  was  the  second.  They  had  outstripped  the  more 
cautious  troopers. 

"My  Gawd !"  breathed  Larry. 

Neale  gripped  his  rifle  with  fierce  hands  and  strode  for 
ward  between  two  of  the  burned  wagons.  Naked,  muti 
lated  bodies,  bloody  and  ghastly,  lay  in  horrible  positions. 
All  had  been  scalped. 

Slingerland  rode  up  with  the  troops,  and  all  dis 
mounted,  cursing  and  muttering. 

35 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

Colonel  Dillon  ordered  a  search  for  anything  to  iden 
tify  the  dead.  There  was  nothing.  All  had  been  burned 
or  taken  away.  Of  the  camp  implements,  mostly  de 
stroyed,  there  were  two  shovels  left,  one  with  a  burnt 
handle.  These  were  used  by  the  troopers  to  dig  graves. 

Neale  had  at  first  been  sickened  by  the  ghastly  spec 
tacle.  He  walked  aside  a  little  way  and  sat  down  upon  a 
rock.  His  face  was  wet  with  clammy  sweat.  A  gnawing 
rage  seemed  to  affect  him  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach.  This 
was  the  first  experience  with  the  fiendish  work  of  the 
savages.  A  whirl  of  thoughts  filled  his  mind. 

Suddenly  he  fancied  he  heard  a  low  moan.  He  started 
violently.  "Well,  I'm  hearing  things,"  he  muttered, 
soberly. 

It  made  him  so  nervous  that  he  got  up  and  walked  back 
to  where  the  troopers  were  digging.  He  saw  the  body  of 
a  woman  being  lowered  into  a  grave  and  the  sight  re 
minded  him  of  what  Slingerland  had  said.  He  saw  the 
scout  searching  around  and  he  went  over  to  him. 

"Have  you  found  the  girl  ?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet.  I  reckon  the  devils  made  off  with  her. 
They'd  take  her,  if  she  happened  to  be  alive." 

"God !    I  hope  she's  dead." 

"Wai,  son,  so  does  Al  Slingerland." 

More  searching  failed  to  find  the  body  of  the  girl. 
She  was  given  up  as  lost. 

"I'll  find  out  if  she  was  took  captive,"  said  Slinger 
land.  "This  Sioux  band  has  been  friendly  with  me." 

"Man,   they're   on  the  war-path,"    rejoined   Dillon. 

"Wai,  I've  traded  with  them  same  Sioux  when  they 
was  on  the  war-path.  .  .  .  This  massacre  sure  is  awful, 
an'  the  Sioux  will  hev  to  be  extarminated.  But  they  hev 
their  wrongs.  An'  Injuns  is  Injuns." 

Slabs  of  rock  were  laid  upon  the  graves.  Then  the 
troopers  rode  away. 

Neale  and  Slingerland  and  Larry  King  were  the  last  to 
mount.  And  it  was  at  this  moment  that  Neale  either  re- 

36 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

membered  the  strange,  low  moan  or  heard  it  again.    He 
reined  in  his  horse. 

"I'm  going  back,"  he  called. 

"What  fer?"  Slingerland  rejoined. 

Larry  King  wheeled  his  mount  and  trotted  back  to  Neale, 

"Red,  I'm  not  satisfied,"  said  Neale,  and  told  his  friend 
what  he  thought  he  had  heard. 

"Boy,  you're  oot  of  yur  haid!"  expostulated  Red. 

"Maybe  I  am.     But  I'm  going  back.     Are  you  coming?" 

"Shore,"  replied  Red,  with  his  easy  goodnature. 

Slingerland  sat  his  horse  and  watched  while  he  waited. 
The  dust-cloud  that  marked  the  troops  drew  farther  away. 

Neale  dismounted,  threw  his  bridle,  and  looked  search- 
ingly  around.  But  Larry,  always  more  comfortable  on 
horseback  than  on  land,  kept  his  saddle.  Suddenly  Neale 
felt  inexplicably  drawn  in  a  certain  direction — toward  a 
rocky  ledge.  Still  he  heard  nothing  except  the  wind  in 
the  few  scraggy  trees.  All  the  ground  in  and  around  the 
scene  of  the  massacre  had  been  gone  over;  there  was  no 
need  to  examine  it  again.  Neale  had  nothing  tangible 
upon  which  to  base  his  strange  feeling.  Yet  absurd  or 
not,  he  refused  to  admit  it  was  fancy  or  emotion.  Some 
voice  had  called  him.  He  swore  it.  If  he  did  not  make 
sure  he  would  always  be  haunted.  So  with  clear,  deliber 
ate  eyes  he  surveyed  the  scene.  Then  he  strode  for  the 
ledge  of  rock. 

Tufts  of  sage  grew  close  at  its  base.  He  advanced 
among  them.  The  surface  of  the  rock  was  uneven — and 
low  down  a  crack  showed.  At  that  instant  a  slow,  sob 
bing,  gasping  intake  of  breath  electrified  Neale. 

"Red — come  here!"  he  yelled,  in  a  voice  that  made  the 
cowboy  jump. 

Neale  dropped  to  his  knees  and  parted  the  tufts  of  sage. 
Lower  down  the  crack  opened  up.  On  the  ground,  just 
inside  that  crack  he  saw  the  gleam  of  a  mass  of  chestnut 
hair.  His  first  flashing  thought  was  that  here  was  a  scal$ 
the  red  devils  did  not  get. 

37 


THE   U0    P.   TRAIL 

Then  Red  King  was  kneeling  beside  him — bending  for- 
ivard.  "It's  a  girl!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Yes — the  one  Slingetland  told  me  about — the  girl 
with  big  eyes,"  replied  Neale.  He  put  a  hand  softly 
on  her  head.  It  was  warm.  Her  hair  felt  silky,  and 
the  touch  sent  a  quiver  over  him.  Probably  she  was 
dying. 

Slingerland  came  riding  up.  "Wai,  boys,  what  hev  you 
found?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

"That  girl,"  replied  Neale. 

The  reply  brought  Slingerland  sliding  out  of  his  saddle. 

Neale  hesitated  a  moment,  then  reaching  into  the 
aperture,  he  got  his  hands  under  the  girl's  arms  and  care 
fully  drew  her  out  upon  the  grass.  She  lay  face  down,  her 
hair  a  tumbled  mass,  her  body  inert.  Neale's  quick  eye 
searched  for  blood-stains,  but  found  none. 

"I  remember  thet  hair,"  said  Slingerland.     "Turn  her 


over." 


"I  reckon  we'll  see  then  where  she's  hurt,"  muttered 
Red  King. 

Evidently  Neale  thought  the  same,  for  he  was  plainly 
to  place  her  on  her  back. 

"Slingerland,  she's  not  such  a  little  girl,"  he  said,  irrel 
evantly.  Then  he  slipped  his  hands  under  her  arms 
again.  Suddenly  he  felt  something  wet  and  warm  and 
sticky.  He  pulled  a  hand  out.  It  was  blood-stained. 

"Aw!"  exclaimed  Red. 

"Son,  what  'd  you  expect?"  demanded  Slingerland. 
i"She  got  shot  or  cut,  an'  in  her  fright  she  crawled  in  thar. 
Come,  over  with  her.  Let's  see.  She  might  live." 

This  practical  suggestion  acted  quickly  upon  Neale. 
He  turned  the  girl  over  so  that  her  head  lay  upon  his  knees. 
The  face  thus  exposed  was  deathly  pale,  set  like  stone  in 
horror.  The  front  of  her  dress  was  a  bloody  mass,  and 
her  hands  were  red. 

"Stabbed  in  the  breast!"  exclaimed  King. 

*  No,"  replied  Slingerland.  "  If  she'd  been  stabbed  she'd 

38 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

been  scalped,   too.    Mebbe  thet  blood  comes  from  an 
arrow  an'  she  might  hev  pulled  it  out." 

Neale  bent  over  her  with  swift  scrutiny.  "No  cut  or 
hole  in  her  dress!" 

"Boys,  thar  ain't  no  marks  on  her — only  thet  blood," 
added  Slingerland,  hopefully. 

Neale  tore  open  the  front  of  her  blouse  and  slipped  his 
hand  in  upon  her  breast.  It  felt  round,  soft,  warm  under 
his  touch,  but  quiet.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Those  moans  I  heard  must  have  been  her  last  dying 
breaths,"  he  said. 

"Mebbe.  But  she  shore  doesn't  look  daid  to  me," 
replied  King.  "I've  seen  daid  people.  Put  your  hand  on 
her  heart." 

Neale  had  been  feeling  for  heart  pulsations  on  her  right 
side.  He  shifted  his  hand.  Instantly  through  the  soft 
swell  of  her  breast  throbbed  a  beat — beat — beat.  The 
beatings  were  regular  and  not  at  all  faint. 

"Good  Lord,  what  a  fool  I  am!"  he  cried.  "She's  alive! 
Her  heart's  going!  There's  not  a  wound  on  her!" 

"Wai,  we  can't  see  any,  thet's  sure,"  replied  Slingerland. 

"She  might  hev  a  fatal  hurt,  all  the  same,"  suggested 
King. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Neale.  "That  blood's  from  some  one 
else — most  likely  her  murdered  mother.  .  .  .  Red,  run  for 
some  water.  Fetch  it  in  your  hat.  Slingerland,  ride  after 
the  troops." 

Slingerland  rose  and  mounted  his  horse.  "Wai,  I've  an 
idee.  Let's  take  the  girl  to  my  cabin.  Thet's  not  fur 
from  hyar.  It's  a  long  ride  to  the  camp.  An*  if  she  needs 
the  troop  doctor  we  can  fetch  him  to  my  place." 

"But  the  Sioux?" 

"Wai,  she'd  be  safer  with  me.  The  Injuns  an*  me  are 
friends." 

"All  right.  Good.  But  you  ride  after  the  troops,  any 
how,  and  tell  Dillon  about  the  girl — that  we're  going  to 
your  cabin." 

39 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Slingerland  galloped  away  after  the  dust  cloud  down  tke 
trail 

Neale  gazed  strangely  down  at  the  face  of  the  girl  he 
had  rescued.  Her  lips  barely  parted  to  make  again  the 
low  moan.  So  that  was  what  had  called  to  him.  No — 
not  all!  There  was  something  more  than  this  feeble  cry 
that  had  brought  him  back  to  search;  there  had  been 
some  strong  and  nameless  and  inexplicable  impulse.  Neale 
believed  in  his  impulses — in  those  strange  ones  which  came 
to  him  at  intervals.  So  far  in  his  life  girls  had  been  rather 
negative  influences.  But  this  girl,  or  the  fact  that  he  had 
saved  her,  or  both  impressions  together,  struck  deep  into 
him;  life  would  never  again  be  quite  the  same  to  Warren 
Neale. 

Red  King  came  striding  back  with  a  sombrero  full  of 
water. 

"Take  your  scarf  and  wash  that  blood  off  her  hands  be 
fore  she  comes  to  and  sees  it,"  said  Neale. 

The  cowboy  was  awkward  at  the  task,  but  infinitely  gen 
tle.  "Poor  kid!  I'll  bet  she's  alone  in  the  world  now." 

Neale  wet  his  scarf  and  bathed  the  girl's  face.  "  If  she's 
only  fainted  she  ought  to  be  reviving  now.  But  I'm 
afraid—" 

Then  suddenly  her  eyes  opened.  They  were  large, 
violet-hued,  covered  with  a  kind  of  veil  or  film,  as  though 
sleep  had  not  wholly  gone;  and  they  were  unseeingly,  star- 
ingly  set  with  horror.  Her  breast  heaved  with  a  sharply 
drawn  breath;  her  hands  groped  and  felt  for  something 
to  hold;  her  body  trembled.  Suddenly  she  sat  up.  She 
was  not  weak.  Her  motions  were  violent.  The  dazed, 
horror-stricken  eyes  roved  around,  but  did  not  fasten  upon 
anything. 

"Aw!    Gone  crazy!"  muttered  King,  pityingly. 

It  did  seem  so.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  ears  as  if  to 
shut  out  a  horrible  sound.  And  she  screamed.  Neale 
grasped  her  shoulders,  turned  her  round,  and  forced  her 
into  such  a  position  that  her  gaze  must  meet  his. 

40 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"You're  safe!"  he  cried,  sharply.  "The  Indians  have 
gone!  I'm  a  white  man!" 

It  seemed  as  though  his  piercing  voice  stirred  her  rea 
son.  She  stared  at  him.  Her  face  changed.  Her  lips 
parted  and  her  hand,  shaking  like  a  leaf,  covered  them, 
clutched  at  them.  The  other  hand  waved  before  her  as 
if  to  brush  aside  some  haunting  terror. 

Neale  held  that  gaze  with  all  his  power — dominant 
masterful,  masculine.  He  repeated  what  he  had  said. 

Then  it  became  a  wonderful  and  terrible  sight  to  watch 
her,  to  divine  in  some  little  way  the  dark  and  awful  state 
of  her  mind.  The  lines,  the  tenseness,  the  shade,  the  age 
faded  out  of  her  face;  the  deep-set  frown  smoothed  itself 
out  of  her  brow  and  it  became  young.  Neale  saw  those 
staring  eyes  fix  upon  his;  he  realized  a  dull,  opaque 
blackness  of  horror,  hideous  veils  let  down  over  the 
windows  of  a  soul,  images  of  hell  limned  forever  on  a 
mind.  Then  that  film,  that  unseeing  cold  thing,  like  the 
shade  of  sleep  or  of  death,  passed  from  her  eyes.  Now 
they  suddenly  were  alive,  great  dark-violet  gulfs,  full  of 
shadows,  dilating,  changing  into  exquisite  and  beautiful 
lights. 

"I'm  a  white  man!"  he  said,  tensely.  "You're  saved! 
The  Indians  are  gone!" 

She  understood  him.  She  realized  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  Then,  with  a  low,  agonized,  and  broken  cry  she 
shut  her  eyes  tight  and  reached  blindly  out  with  both 
hands;  she  screamed  aloud.  Shock  claimed  her  again. 
Horror  and  fear  convulsed  her,  and  it  must  have  been  fear 
that  was  uppermost.  She  clutched  Neale  with  fingers 
of  steel,  in  a  grip  he  could  not  have  loosened  without 
breaking  her  bones. 

"Red,  you  saw — she  was  right  in  her  mind  for  a  mo 
ment — you  saw?"  burst  out  Neale. 

"Shore  I  saw.  She's  only  scared  now,"  replied  King. 
*'  It  must  hev  been  hell  fer  her." 

At  this  juncture  Slingerland  came  riding  up  to  them* 

4  41 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Did  she  come  around?"  he  inquired,  curiously  gazing  at 
the  girl  as  she  clung  to  Neale. 

"Yes,  for  a  moment,"  replied  Neale. 

"Wai,  thet's  good.  ...  I  caught  up  with  Dillon.  Told 
him.  He  was  mighty  glad  we  found  her.  Cussed  his 
troopers  some.  Said  he'd  explain  your  absence,  an*  we 
could  send  over  fer  aaythin'." 

"Let's  go,  then,"  said  Neale.  He  tried  to  loosen  the 
girl's  hold  on  him,  but  had  to  give  it  up.  Taking  her  in 
his  arms,  he  rose  and  went  toward  his  horse.  King  had  to 
help  him  mount  with  his  burden.  Neale  did  not  imagine 
he  would  ever  forget  that  spot,  but  he  took  another  long 
look  to  fix  the  scene  indelibly  on  his  memory.  The 
charred  wagons,  the  graves,  the  rocks  over  which  the 
naked,  gashed  bodies  had  been  flung,  the  three  scraggy 
trees  close  together,  and  the  ledge  with  the  dark  aperture 
at  the  base — he  gazed  at  them  all,  and  then  turned  his 
horse  to  follow  Slingerland. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ten  miles  from  the  scene  of  the  massacre  and 
perhaps  fifteen  from  the  line  surveyed  by  the  en 
gineers,  Slingerland  lived  in  a  wild  valley  in  the  heart  of 
the  Wyoming  hills. 

The  ride  there  was  laborsome  and  it  took  time,  but  Neale 
scarcely  noted  either  fact.  He  paid  enough  attention  to 
the  trail  to  fix  landmarks  and  turnings  in  his  mind,  so  that 
he  would  remember  how  to  find  the  way  there  again.  He 
was,  however,  mostly  intent  upon  the  girl  he  was  carrying. 

Twice  that  he  knew  of  her  eyes  opened  during  the  ride. 
But  it  was  to  see  nothing  and  only  to  grip  him  tighter,  if  that 
were  possible.  Neale  began  to  imagine  that  he  had  been 
too  hopeful.  Her  body  was  a  dead  weight  and  cold. 
Those  two  glimpses  he  had  of  her  opened  eyes  hurt  him. 
What  should  he  do  when  she  did  come  to  herself?  She 
would  be  frantic  with  horror  and  grief  and  he  would  be 
helpless.  In  a  case  like  hers  it  might  have  been  better 
if  she  had  been  killed. 

The  last  mile  to  Slingerland's  lay  through  a  beautiful 
green  valley  with  steep  sides  almost  like  a  canon — trees 
everywhere,  and  a  swift,  clear  brook  running  over  a  bed 
of  smooth  rock.  The  trail  led  along  this  brook  up  to 
where  the  valley  boxed  and  the  water  boiled  out  of  a  great 
spring  in  a  green  glade  overhung  by  bushy  banks  and 
gray  rocks  above.  A  rude  cabin  with  a  red-stone  chimney 
and  clay-chinked  cracks  between  the  logs,  stuffed  to  burst 
ing  with  furs  and  pelts  and  horns  and  traps,  marked  the 
home  of  the  trapper. 

"Wai,  we're  hyar,"  sung  out  Slingerland,  and  in  the 

43 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

cheery  tones  there  was  something  which  told  that  the 
place  was  indeed  home  to  him. 

"Shore  is  a  likely-lookin*  camp,"  drawled  Red,  throwing 
his  bridle.  "Been  heah  a  long  time,  thet  cabin." 

"Me  an*  my  pard  was  the  first  white  men  in  these 
hyar  hills,"  replied  Slingerland.  "He's  gone  now."  Then 
he  tinned  to  Neale.  "Son,  you  must  be  tired.  Thet  was 
a  ways  to  carry  a  girl  nigh  onto  dead. . .  .  Look  how  white? 
Hand  her  down  to  me." 

The  girl's  hands  slipped  nervelessly  and  limp  from  their 
hold  upon  Neale.  Slingerland  laid  her  on  the  grass  in  a 
shady  spot.  The  three  men  gazed  down  upon  her,  all 
sober,  earnest,  doubtful. 

"  I  reckon  we  can't  do  nothin'  but  wait,"  said  the  trapper. 

Red  King  shook  his  head  as  if  the  problem  were  beyond 
him. 

Neale  did  not  voice  his  thought,  yet  he  wanted  to  be 
the  first  person  her  eyes  should  rest  upon  when  she  did 
return  to  consciousness. 

"Wai,  I'll  set  to  work  an*  clean  out  a  place  fer  her," 
said  Slingerland. 

"We'll  help,"  rejoined  Neale.  "Red,  you  have  a  look 
at  the  horses." 

"I'll  slip  the  saddles  an'  bridles,"  replied  King,  "an' 
let  'em  go.  Hosses  couldn't  be  chased  out  of  heah." 

Slingerland's  cabin  consisted  really  of  two  adjoining 
cabins  with  a  door  between,  one  part  being  larger  and  of 
later  construction.  Evidently  he  used  the  older  building 
as  a  storeroom  for  his  pelts.  When  all  these  had  been 
removed  the  room  was  seen  to  be  small,  with  two  windows, 
a  table,  and  a  few  other  crude  articles  of  home-made  furni 
ture.  The  men  cleaned  this  room  and  laid  down  a  carpet 
of  deer  hides,  fur  side  up.  A  bed  was  made  of  a  huge  roll 
of  buffalo  skins,  flattened  and  shaped,  and  covered  with 
Indian  blankets.  When  all  this  had  been  accomplished 
the  trapper  removed  his  fur  cap,  scratched  his  grizzled 
head,  and  appealed  to  Neale  and  King. 

44 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"I  reckon  yoti  can  fetch  over  some  comfortable-like 
necessaries — fixin's  fer  a  girl,"  he  suggested. 

Red  King  laughed  in  his  cool,  easy,  droll  way.  "Shore, 
we'll  rustle  fer  a  lookin'-glass,  an'  hair-brush,  an'  such  as 
girls  hev  to  hev.  Our  camp  is  full  of  them  things." 

But  Neale  did  not  see  any  humor  in  Slingerland's  per 
plexity  or  in  the  cowboy's  facetiousness.  It  was  the  girl's 
serious  condition  that  worried  him,  not  her  future  comfort. 

"Run  out  thar!"  called  Slingerland,  sharply. 

Neale,  who  was  the  nearest  to  the  door,  bolted  outside, 
to  see  the  girl  sitting  up,  her  hair  disheveled,  her  manner 
wild  in  the  extreme.  At  sight  of  him  she  gave  a  start, 
sudden  and  violent,  and  uttered  a  sharp  cry.  When  Neale 
reached  her  it  was  to  find  her  shaking  all  over.  Terrible 
fear  had  never  been  more  vividly  shown,  yet  Neale  be 
lieved  she  saw  in  him  a  white  man,  a  friend.  But  the 
fear  in  her  was  still  stronger  than  reason. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"My  name's  Neale — Warren  Neale,"  he  replied,  sitting 
down  beside  her.  He  took  one  of  the  shaking  hands  in 
his.  He  was  glad  that  she  talked  rationally. 

"Where  am  I?" 

"This  is  the  home  of  a  trapper.  I  brought  you  here. 
It  was  the  best — in  fact,  the  only  place." 

"You  saved  me — from — from  those  devils?"  she  queried, 
hoarsely,  and  again  the  cold  and  horrible  shade  veiled  her 
eyes. 

"Yes — yes — but  don't  think  of  them — they're  gone," 
replied  Neale,  hastily.  The  look  of  her  distressed  and 
frightened  him.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

The  girl  fell  back  with  a  poignant  cry  and  covered  her 
eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  a  hateful  and  appalling  sight* 
"My — mother!"  she  moaned,  and  shuddered  with  agony. 
"They— murdered— her!  ...  Oh!  the  terrible  yells!  ...  I 
saw — killed — every  man — Mrs.  Jones!  My  mother — she 
fell — she  never  spoke!  Her  blood  was  on  me! ...  I  crawled 
away — I  hid! . . .  The  Indians — they  tore — hacked — scalped 

45 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

— burned! ...  I  couldn't  diet— I  saw! ...  Oh!— Oh!— Oh!" 
Then  she  fell  to  moaning  in  inarticulate  fashion. 

Slingerland  and  King  came  out  and  looked  down  at  the 
girl. 

"Wai,  the  life's  strong  in  her,"  said  the  trapper.  "I 
reckon  I  know  when  life  is  strong  in  any  critter.  She'll 
git  over  thet.  All  we  can  do  now  is  to  watch  her  anf 
keep  her  from  doin'  herself  harm.  Take  her  in  an*  lay 
her  down." 

For  two  days  and  nights  Neale  watched  over  her,  except 
for  the  hours  she  slept,  when  he  divided  his  vigil  with  King. 
She  had  periods  of  consciousness,  in  which  she  knew 
Neale,  but  most  of  the  time  she  raved  or  tossed  or  moaned 
or  lay  like  one  dead.  On  the  third  day,  however,  Neale 
felt  encouraged.  She  awoke  weak  and  somber,  but  quiet 
and  rational.  Neale  talked  earnestly  to  her,  in  as  sensible 
a  way  as  he  knew  how,  speaking  briefly  of  the  tragic  fate 
that  had  been  hers,  bidding  her  force  it  out  of  her  mind 
by  taking  interest  in  her  new  surroundings.  She  listened 
to  him,  but  did  not  seem  impressed.  It  was  a  difficult 
matter  to  get  her  to  eat.  She  did  not  want  to  move.  At 
length  Neale  told  her  that  he  must  go  back  to  the  camp 
of  the  engineers,  where  he  had  work  to  do;  he  promised 
that  he  would  return  to  see  her  soon  and  often.  She  did 
not  speak  or  raise  her  eyes  when  he  left  her. 

Outside,  when  Red  brought  up  the  horses,  Slingerland 
said  to  Neale:  "See  hyar,  son,  I  reckon  you  needn't  worry. 
Shell  come  around  all  right." 

"Shore  she  will,"  corroborated  the  cowboy.  "Time  '11 
cure  her.  I'm  from  Texas,  whar  sudden  death  is  plentiful 
in  all  families." 

Neale  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said. 
*'  That  girl's  more  sensitively  and  delicately  organized  than 
you  fellows  see-  I  doubt  if  she'll  ever  recover  from  the 
shock.  It  '11  take  a  mighty  great  influence.  .  .  .  But  let's 
hope  for  the  best.  Now,  Slingerland,  take  care  of  her  as 
best  you  can.  Shut  her  in  when  you  leave  camp.  I'll 

46 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

ride  over  as  often  as  possible.  If  she  gets  so  she  will  talk, 
then  we  can  find  out  if  she  has  any  relatives,  and  if  so  I'll 
take  her  to  them.  If  not  I'll  do  whatever  else  I  can  for 
her." 

"Wai,  son,  I  like  the  way  you're  makin'  yourself  respon 
sible  fer  thet  kid,"  replied  the  trapper.  "I  never  had  no 
wife  nor  daughter.  But  I'm  thinkin' — wouldn't  it  jest 
be  hell  to  be  a  girl — tender  an*  young  an'  like  Neale  said — 
an'  sudden  hev  all  you  loved  butchered  before  your  eyes?" 

"It  shore  would,"  said  Red,  feelingly.  "An'  thet's  what 
she  sees  all  the  time." 

"  Slingerland,  do  we  run  any  chance  of  meeting  Indians?" 
queried  Neale. 

"  I  reckon  not.  Them  Sioux  will  git  fur  away  from  hyar 
after  thet  massacre.  But  you  want  to  keep  sharp  eyes 
out,  an'  if  you  do  meet  any,  jest  ride  an'  shoot  your  way 
through.  You've  the  best  horses  I've  seen.  Whar'd  you 
git  them?" 

"They  belong  to  King.    He's  a  cowboy." 

"Hosses  was  my  job.  An'  we  can  shore  ride  away  from 
any  redskins,"  replied  King. 

"Wai,  good  luck,  an'  come  back  soon,"  was  Slingerland's 
last  word. 

So  they  parted.  The  cowboy  led  the  way  with  the 
Steady,  easy,  trotting  walk  that  saved  a  horse  yet  covered 
distance;  in  three  hours  they  were  hailed  by  a  trooper 
outpost,  and  soon  they  were  in  camp. 

Shortly  after  their  arrival  the  engineers  returned,  tired, 
dusty,  work-stained,  and  yet  in  unusually  good  spirits. 
They  had  run  the  line  up  over  Sherman  Pass,  and  now 
it  seemed  their  difficulties  were  to  lessen  as  the  line  began 
to  descend  from  the  summit  of  the  divide.  Neale's  ab 
sence  had  been  noticed,  for  his  services  were  in  demand. 
But  all  the  men  rejoiced  in  his  rescue  of  the  little  girl,  and 
were  sympathetic  and  kind  in  their  inquiries.  It  seemed 
to  Neale  that  his  chief  looked  searchingly  at  him,  as  if 
somehow  the  short  absence  had  made  a  change  in  him. 

47 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

Neale  himself  grew  conscious  of  a  strange  difference  in 
his  inner  nature;  he  could  not  forget  the  girl,  her  help 
lessness,  her  pathetic  plight. 

"Well,  it's  curious,"  he  soliloquized.  "But — it's  not 
so,  either.  I'm  sorry  for  her." 

And  he  remembered  the  strange  change  in  her  eyes 
when  he  had  watched  the  shadow  of  horror  and  death 
and  blood  fade  away  before  the  natural  emotions  of 
youth  and  life  and  hope. 

Next  day  Neale  showed  more  than  ever  his  value  to  the 
engineering  corps,  and  again  won  a  word  of  quiet  praise 
from  his  chief.  He  liked  the  commendation  of  his  su 
periors.  He  began  to  believe  heart  and  soul  in  the  coming 
greatness  of  the  railroad.  And  that  strenuous  week 
drove  his  faithful  lineman,  King,  to  unwonted  complaint. 

Larry  tugged  at  his  boots  and  groaned  as  he  finally 
pulled  them  off.  They  were  full  of  holes,  at  which  he 
gazed  ruefully. 

"Shore  I'll  be  done  with  this  heah  job  when  they're 
gone,"  he  said. 

"Why  do  you  work  in  high-heeled  boots?"  inquired 
Neale.  "You  can't  walk  or  climb  in  them.  No  wonder 
they're  full  of  holes." 

"Wai,  I  couldn't  wear  no  boots  like  yours,"  declared 
Red. 

"You'll  have  to.  Another  day  will  about  finish  them, 
and  your  feet,  too." 

Red  eyed  his  boss  with  interest.  "You-all  cussed  me 
to-day  because  I  was  slow,"  he  complained. 

"Larry,  you  always  are  slow,  except  with  a  horse  or 
gun.  And  lately  you've  been — well,  you  don't  move  out 
of  your  tracks." 

Neale  often  exaggerated  out  of  a  desire  to  tease  his 
friend.  Nobody  else  dared  try  and  banter  King. 

"Wai,  I  didn't  sign  up  with  this  heah  outfit  to  run  up 
hills  all  day,"  replied  Red. 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  I'll  get  Casey  to  be  my  lineman. 

48 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

No,  I've  a  better  idea.     Casey  is  slow,  too.     I'll  use  one 
of  the  niggers." 

Red  King  gave  a  hitch  to  his  belt  and  a  cold  gleam  chased 
away  the  lazy  blue  warmth  from  his  eyes.  "Go  ahaid," 
he  drawled,  "an'  they'll  buiy  the  nigger  to-morrow  night." 

Neale  laughed.  He  knew  Red  hated  darkies — he  sus 
pected  the  Texan  had  thrown  a  gun  on  more  than  a  few— 
and  he  knew  there  surely  would  be  a  funeral  in  camp  if 
he  changed  his  lineman. 

"All  right,  Red.  I  don't  want  blood  spilled,"  he  said, 
cheerfully.  "I'll  be  a  martyr  and  put  up  with  you.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  say  to  a  day  off?  Let's  ride  over  to  Slinger- 
land's." 

The  cowboy's  red  face  slowly  wrinkled  into  a  smile. 
"Wai,  I  shore  was  wonderin'  what  in  the  hell  made  you 
rustle  so  lately.  I  reckon  nothin'  would  suit  me  better. 
I've  been  wonderin',  too,  about  our  little  girl." 

"Red,  let's  wade  through  camp  and  see  what  we  can 
get  to  take  over." 

"Man,  you  mean  jest  steal?"  queried  King,  in  mild  sur 
prise. 

"No.  We'll  ask  for  things.  But  if  we  can't  get  what 
we  want  that  way — why,  we'll  have  to  do  the  other  thing," 
replied  Neale,  thoughtfully.  "Slingerland  did  not  have 
even  a  towel  over  there.  Think  of  that  girl!  She's  been 
used  to  comfort,  if  not  luxury.  I  could  tell.  .  .  .  Let's 
see.  I've  a  mirror  and  an  extra  brush.  .  .  .  Red,  come  on." 

Eagerly  they  went  over  their  scant  belongings,  gener 
ously  appropriating  whatever  might  be  made  of  possible 
use  to  an  unfortunate  girl  in  a  wild  and  barren  country. 
Then  they  fared  forth  into  the  camp.  Every  one  in  the 
corps  contributed  something.  The  chief  studied  Neale's 
heated  face,  and  a  smile  momentarily  changed  his  stern 
features — a  wise  smile,  a  little  sad,  and  full  of  light. 

"I  suppose  you'll  marry  her,"  he  said. 

Neale  blushed  like  a  girl.  "It — that  hadn't  occurred 
to  me,  sir,"  he  stammered. 

49 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Lodge  laughed,  but  his  glance  was  kind.  "Sure  you'll 
marry  her,"  he  said.  "You  saved  her  life.  And,  boy, 
you'll  be  a  big  man  of  the  U.  P.  some  day.  Chief  engineer 
or  superintendent  of  maintenance  of  way  or  some  other 
big  job.  What  could  be  finer?  Romance,  boy.  The  little 
waif  of  the  caravan — you'll  send  her  back  to  Omaha  to 
school;  she'll  grow  into  a  beautiful  woman!  She'll  have 
a  host  of  admirers,  but  you'll  be  the  king  of  the  lot — sure." 

Neale  got  out  of  the  tent  with  tingling  ears.  He  was 
used  to  the  badinage  of  the  men,  and  had  always  retaliated 
with  a  sharp  and  ready  tongue.  But  this  half -kind,  half- 
humorous  talk  encroached  upon  what  he  felt  to  be  the 
secret  side  of  his  nature — the  romantic  and  the  dreamful 
side — to  which  such  fancies  were  unconsciously  dear. 

Early  the  next  morning  Neale  and  King  rode  out  on  the 
way  to  Slingerland's. 

The  sun  was  warm  when  they  reached  the  valley  through 
which  ran  the  stream  that  led  up  to  the  cabin.  Spring 
was  in  the  air.  The  leaves  of  cottonwood  and  willow  added 
their  fresh  emerald  to  the  darker  green  of  the  pine.  Blue 
bells  showed  in  the  grass  along  the  trail;  there  grew 
lavender  and  yellow  flowers  unfamiliar  to  Neale;  trout 
rose  and  splashed  on  the  surface  of  the  pools;  and  the  way 
•was  melodious  with  the  humming  of  bees  and  the  singing 
of  birds. 

Slingerland  saw  them  coming  and  strode  out  to  meet 
them  with  hearty  greeting. 

"Is  she  all  right?"  queried  Neale,  abruptly. 

"No,  she  ain't,"  replied  Slingerland,  shaking  his  shaggy 
head.  "She  won't  eat  or  move  or  talk.  She's  wastin' 
away.  She  jest  sits  or  lays  with  that  awful  look  in  her 
eyes." 

"Can't  you  make  her  talk?" 

"Wai,  she'll  say  no  to  'most  anythin'.  There  was 
three  times  she  asked  when  you  was  comin'  back.  Then 
she  quit  askin'.  I  reckon  she's  forgot  you.  But  she's  never 
forgot  thet  bloody  massacre.  It's  there  in  her  eyes." 


THE   U.   P.  TRAIL 

Neale  dismounted,  and,  untying  the  pack  from  his  sad 
dle,  he  laid  it  down,  removed  saddle  and  bridle;  then  he 
turned  the  horse  loose.  He  did  this  automatically  while 
his  mind  was  busy. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked. 

"Over  thar  under  the  pines  whar  the  brook  spills  out 
of  the  spring.  Thet's  the  only  place  she'll  walk  to.  I 
believe  she  likes  to  listen  to  the  water.  An'  she's  always 
Afraid." 

"I've  fetched  a  pack  of  things  for  her,"  said  Neale. 
"Come  on,  Red." 

"Shore  you  go  alone,"  replied  the  cowboy,  hanging  back. 
"Girls  is  not  my  job." 

So  Neale  approached  alone.  The  spot  was  green, 
fragrant,  shady,  bright  with  flowers,  musical  with  mur 
muring  water.  Presently  he  spied  her — a  drooping,  for 
lorn  little  figure.  The  instant  he  saw  her  he  felt  glad 
and  sad  at  once.  She  started  quickly  at  his  step  and 
turned.  He  remembered  the  eyes,  but  hardly  the  face. 
It  had  grown  thinner  and  whiter  than  the  one  he  had  in 
mind. 

"My  Lord!  she's  going  to  die!"  breathed  Neale.  "What 
can  I  do — what  can  I  say  to  her?" 

He  walked  directly  but  slowly  up  to  her,  aware  of  her 
staring  eyes,  and  confused  by  them. 

"Hello!  little  girl,  I've  brought  you  some  things,"  he 
said,  and  tried  to  speak  cheerfully. 

"Oh — is — it  you?"  she  said,  brokenly. 

"Yes,  it's  Neale.    I  hope  you've  not  forgotten  me." 

There  came  a  fleeting  change  over  her,  but  not  in  her 
face,  he  thought,  because  not  a  muscle  moved,  and  the 
white  stayed  white.  It  must  have  been  in  her  eyes,  though 
he  could  not  certainly  tell.  He  bent  over  to  untie  the 
pack. 

"I've  brought  you  a  lot  of  things,"  he  said.  "Hope 
you'll  find  them  useful.  Here—" 

She  did  not  look  at  the  open  pack  or  pay  any  attention 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

to  him.  The  drooping  posture  had  been  resumed,  together 
with  the  somber  stariny  at  the  brook.  Neale  watched  her 
in  despair,  and,  watching,  he  divined  that  only  the  most 
infinite  patience  and  magnetism  and  power  could  bring 
her  out  of  her  brooding  long  enough  to  give  nature  a 
chance.  He  recognized  how  unequal  he  was  to  the  task. 
But  the  impossible  or  the  unattainable  had  always  roused 
Neale's  spirit.  Defeat  angered  him.  This  girl  was  alive; 
she  was  not  hurt  physically;  he  believed  she  could  be 
made  to  forget  that  tragic  night  of  blood  and  death.  He 
set  his  teeth  and  swore  he  would  display  the  tact  of  a 
woman,  the  patience  of  a  saint,  the  skill  of  a  physician, 
the  love  of  a  father — anything  to  hold  back  this  girl  from 
the  grave  into  which  she  was  fading.  Reaching  out,  he 
touched  her. 

"Can  you  understand  me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  Her  voice  was  thin,  far  away, 
an  evident  effort. 

"I  saved  your  life." 

"I  wish  you  had  let  me  die."  Her  reply  was  quick  with 
feeling,  and  it  thrilled  Neale  because  it  was  a  proof  that 
he  could  stimulate  or  aggravate  her  mind. 

"But  I  did  save  you.    Now  you  owe  me  something." 

"What?" 

"Why,  gratitude — enough  to  want  to  live,  to  try  to 
help  yourself." 

"No — no,"  she  whispered,  and  relapsed  into  the  somber 
apathy. 

Neale  could  scarcely  elicit  another  word  from  her;  then  by 
way  of  change  he  held  out  different  articles  he  had  brought 
— scarfs,  a  shawl,  a  mirror — and  made  her  look  at  them. 
Her  own  face  in  the  mirror  did  not  interest  her.  He 
tried  to  appeal  to  a  girl's  vanity.  She  had  none. 

"Your  hair  is  all  tangled,"  he  said,  bringing  forth  comb 
and  brush.  "Here,  smooth  it  out." 

"No — no — no,"  she  moaned. 

"All  right,  I'll  do  it  for  you,"  he  countered.  Surprised 

52 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

at  finding  her  passive  when  he  had  expected  resistance,  he 
began  to  comb  out  the  tangled  tresses.  In  his  earnestness 
he  did  not  perceive  how  singular  his  action  might  seem 
to  an  onlooker.  She  had  a  mass  of  hair  that  quickly  began 
to  smooth  out  and  brighten  under  his  hand.  He  became 
absorbed  in  his  task  and  failed  to  see  the  a^  proH.cn  ol 
Larry  King. 

The  cowboy  was  utterly  amazed,  and  presently  he 
grinned  his  delight.  Evidently  the  girl  was  all  right  and 
no  longer  to  be  feared. 

"Wai,  shore  thet's  fine,"  he  drawled.  "Neale,  I  always 
knowed  you  was  a  lady's  man.*'  And  Larry  sat  down  be 
side  them 

The  girl's  face  was  half  hidden  under  the  mass  of  hair, 
and  her  head  was  lowered.  Neale  gave  Larry  a  warning 
glance,  meant  to  convey  that  he  was  not  to  be  funny. 

"This  is  my  cowboy  friend,  Larry  Red  King,"  said  Neale. 
"He  was  with  me  when  I — I  found  you." 

"Larry — Red — King,"  murmured  the  girl.  "My  name 
is— Allie." 

Again  Neale  had  penetrated  into  her  close-locked  mind. 
What  she  said  astounded  him  so  that  he  dropped  the 
brush  and  stared  at  Larry.  And  Larry  lost  his  grin;  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  and  his  own  grew  troubled. 

"Allie — I  shore — am  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  and 
there  was  more  feeling  in  his  voice  than  Neale  had  ever 
before  heard.  Larry  was  not  slow  of  comprehension.  He 
began  to  talk  in  his  drawling  way.  Neale  heard  him  with 
a  smile  he  tried  to  hide,  but  he  liked  Larry  the  better  for 
his  simplicity.  This  gun-throwing  cowboy  had  a  big 
heart. 

Larry,  however,  did  not  linger  for  long.  His  attempts 
to  get  the  girl  to  talk  grew  weaker  and  ended;  then,  after 
another  glance  at  the  tragic,  wan  face  he  got  up  and 
thoughtfully  slouched  away. 

"So  your  name  is  Allie,"  said  Neale.  "Well,  AW* 
what?" 

53 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

She  did  not  respond  to  one  out  of  a  hundred  questions, 
and  this  query  found  no  lodgment  in  her  mind. 

"Will  you  braid  your  hair  now?"  he  asked. 

The  answer  was  the  low  and  monotonous  negative,  but, 
nevertheless,  her  hands  sought  her  hair  and  parted  it,  and 
began  to  braid  it  mechanically.  This  encouraged  Neale 
more  than  anything  else;  it  showed  him  that  there  were 
habits  of  mind  into  which  he  could  turn  her.  Finally 
he  got  her  to  walk  along  the  brook  and  also  to  eat 
and  drink. 

At  the  end  of  that  day  he  was  more  exhausted  than  he 
would  have  been  after  a  hard  climb.  Yet  he  was  en 
couraged  to  think  that  he  could  get  some  kind  of  passive 
unconscious  obedience  from  her. 

"Reckon  you'd  better  stay  over  to-morrow,"  suggested 
Slingerland.  His  concern  for  the  girl  could  not  have  been 
greater  had  she  been  his  own  daughter.  "Allie — thet  was 
her  name,  you  said.  Wai,  it's  pretty  an*  easy  to  say." 

Next  day  Allie  showed  an  almost  imperceptible  improve 
ment.  It  might  have  been  Neale's  imagination  leading 
him  to  believe  that  there  were  really  grounds  for  hope. 
The  trapper  and  the  cowboy  could  not  get  any  response 
from  her,  but  there  was  certain  proof  that  he  could.  The 
(Conviction  moved  him  to  deep  emotion. 

An  hour  before  sunset  Neale  decided  to  depart,  and 
told  Larry  to  get  the  horses.  Then  he  went  to  Allie,  un 
decided  what  to  say,  feeling  that  he  must  have  tortured 
her  this  day  with  his  ceaseless  importunities.  How  small 
the  chance  that  he  might  again  awaken  the  springs  of  life 
interest.  Yet  the  desire  was  strong  within  him  to  try. 

"Allie."  He  repeated  her  name  before  she  heard  him. 
Then  she  looked  up.  The  depths — the  tragic  lonesome- 
ness — of  her  eyes — haunted  Neale. 

"I'm  going  back.     I'll  come  again  soon." 

She  made  a  quick  movement — seized  his  arm.  He  re- 
'membered  the  close,  tight  grip  of  her  hands. 

54 


THE    U.    P.    i  RAIL 

"Don't  go!"  she  implored.  Black  fear  stared  out  of 
her  eyes. 

Neale  was  thunderstruck  at  the  suddenness  of  her  speech 
— at  its  intensity.  Also  he  felt  an  unfamiliar  kind  of  joy. 
He  began  to  explain  that  he  must  return  to  work,  that 
he  would  soon  come  to  see  her  again;  but  even  as  he 
talked  she  faded  back  into  that  dull  and  somber  apathy. 

Neale  rode  away  with  only  one  conviction  gained  from 
the  developments  of  the  two  days;  it  was  that  he  would 
be  restless  and  haunted  until  he  could  go  to  her  again. 
Something  big  and  moving — something  equal  to  his  am 
bition  for  his  work  on  the  great  railroad — had  risen  in  him 
and  would  not  be  denied. 


CHAPTER  VH 

NEALE  rode  to  Slingerland's  cabin  twice  during  the 
ensuing  fortnight,  but  did  not  note  any  improvement 
in  Allie's  condition  or  demeanor.  The  trapper,  however, 
assured  Neale  that  she  was  gradually  gaining  a  little  and 
taking  some  slight  interest  in  things;  he  said  that  if  Neale 
could  only  spend  enough  time  there  the  girl  might  recover. 
This  made  Neale  thoughtful. 

General  Lodge  and  his  staff  had  decided  to  station  sev 
eral  engineers  in  camp  along  the  line  of  the  railroad  for  the 
purpose  of  studying  the  drift  of  snow.  It  was  important 
that  all  information  possible  should  be  obtained  during 
the  next  few  winters.  There  would  be  severe  hardship 
attached  to  this  work,  but  Neale  volunteered  to  serve, 
and  the  chief  complimented  him  warmly.  He  was  to 
study  the  action  of  the  snow-drift  along  Sherman  Pass. 

Upon  his  next  visit  to  Slingerland  Neale  had  the  project 
soberly  in  mind  and  meant  to  broach  it  upon  the  first 
opportunity. 

This  morning,  when  Neale  and  King  rode  up  to  the 
cabin,  Allie  did  not  appear  as  upon  the  last  occasion  of 
their  arrival.  Neale  missed  her. 

Slingerland  came  out  with  his  usual  welcome. 

"Where's  Allie?"  asked  Neale. 

"Wai,  she  went  in  jest  now.  She  saw  you  comin*  an: 
then  run  in  to  hide,  I  reckon.  Girls  is  queer  critters." 

"She  watched  for  me — for  us — and  then  ran?"  queried 
Neale,  curiously. 

"Wai,  she  'ain't  done  nothin'  but  watch  fer  you  since 
you  went  away  last.  An',  son,  thet's  a  new  wrinkle  fer 
Allie.  An'  run?  Wai,  like  a  skeered  deer." 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Wonder  what  that  means?"  pondered  Neale.  What 
ever  it  meant,  it  sent  a  little  tingle  of  pleasure  along  his 
pulses.  "Red,  I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk  with  Slinger 
land,"  he  announced,  thoughtfully. 

"Shore;  go  ahaid  an'  talk,"  drawled  the  Southerner,  as 
he  slipped  his  saddle  and  turned  his  horse  loose  with  a 
slap  on  the  flank.  "I  reckon  I'll  take  a  gun  an'  stroll  off 
fer  a  while." 

Neale  led  the  trapper  aside  to  a  shady  spot  under  the 
pines  and  there  unburdened  himself  of  his  plan  for  the 
winter. 

"Son,  you'll  freeze  to  death!"  ejaculated  the  trapper. 

"I  must  build  a  cabin,  of  course,  and  prepare  for  severe 
weather,"  replied  Neale. 

Slingerland  shook  his  shaggy  head.  "I  reckon  you 
ain't  knowin'  these  winters  hyar  as  I  know  them.  But 
thet  long  ridge  you  call  Sherman  Pass — it  ain't  so  fur  we 
couldn't  get  thar  on  snow-shoes  except  in  the  wust  weather. 
I  reckon  you  can  stay  with  me  hyar." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Neale.     "And  now  about  Allie." 

"Wai,  what  about  her?" 

"Shall  I  leave  her  here  or  send  her  back  to  Omaha  with 
the  first  caravan,  or  let  her  go  to  Fort  Fetterman  with  the 
troops?" 

"Son,  she's  your  charge,  but  I  say  leave  her  hyar, 
'specially  now  you  can  be  with  us.  She'd  die  or  go  crazy 
if  you  sent  her.  Why,  she  won't  even  say  if  she's  got  a 
Kvin'  relation.  I  reckon  she  hain't.  She'd  be  better 
hyar.  I've  come  to  be  fond  of  Allie.  She's  strange. 
She's  like  a  spirit.  But  she's  more  human  lately." 

"I'm  glad  you  say  that,  Slingerland,"  replied  Neale. 
"What  to  do  about  her  had  worried  me.  I'll  decide  right 
now.  I'll  leave  her  with  you,  and  I  hope  to  Heaven  I'm 
doing  best  by  her." 

"Wai,  she  ain't  strong  enough  to  travel  fur.  We  didn't 
think  of  thet." 

"That  settles  it,  then,"  said  Neale,  in  relief.  "Time 
5  57 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

enough  to  decide  when  she  is  well  again.  .  .  .  Tell  me  about 
her." 

"Son,  thar's  nuthin'  to  tell.  She's  done  jest  the  same, 
except  fer  thet  takin'  to  watchin'  fer  you.  Reckon  thet 
means  a  good  deal." 

"What?" 

"Wai,  I  don't  figger  girls  as  well  as  I  do  other  critters," 
answered  Slingerland,  reflectively.  "But  I'd  say  Allie 
shows  interest  in  you." 

"Slingerland!  You  don't  mean  she — she  cares  for  me?" 
demanded  Neale. 

"I  don't  know.  Mebbe  not.  Mebbe  she's  beyond 
carin*.  But  I  believe  you  an'  thet  red  memory  of  bloody 
death  air  all  she  ever  thinks  of.  An'  mostly  of  it." 

'Then  it  'II  be  a  fight  between  me  and  that  memory?" 

"So  I  take  it,  son.  But  recollect  I  ain't  no  mind-doctor. 
I  jest  feel  you  could  make  her  fergit  thet  hell  if  you  tried 
hard  enough." 

"I'll  try — hard  as  I  can,"  replied  Neale,  resolutely,  yet 
with  a  certain  softness.  "I'm  sorry  for  her.  I  saved  her. 
Why  shouldn't  I  do  everything  possible?" 

"Wai,  she's  alone." 

"No,  Allie  has  friends — you  and  King  and  me.  That's 
three." 

"Son,  I  reckon  you  don't  figger  me.  Listen.  You're  a 
fine,  strappin*  young  feller  an'  good-lookin'.  More  'n 
thet,  you've  got  some — some  quality  like  an  Injun's — thet 
you  can  feel  but  can't  tell  about.  You  needn't  be  in 
sulted,  fer  I  know  Injuns  thet  beat  white  men  holler  fer 
all  thet's  noble.  Anyway,  you  attract.  An'  now  if  you 
keep  on  with  all  thet — thet — wal,  usin'  yourself  to  make 
Allie  fergit  the  bloody  murder  of  all  she  loved,  to  make 
her  mind  clear  again — why,  sooner  or  later  she's  a-goin'  to 
breathe  an'  live  through  you.  Jest  as  a  flower  lives  off  en 
the  sun.  Thet's  all,  I  reckon." 

Neale's  bronze  cheek  had  paled  a  little.  "Well,  if 
that's  all,  that's  easy,"  he  replied,  with  a  cool,  bright 

58 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

smile  which  showed  the  latent  spirit  in  him.  "  If  it's  only 
that — why  she  can  have  me.  .  .  .  Slingerland,  I've  no  ties 
now.  The  last  one  was  broken  when  my  mother  died — 
not  long  ago.  I'm  alone,  too.  .  .  .  I'd  do  as  much  for  any 
innocent  girl — but  for  this  poor  child  Allie — whose  life 
I  saved — I'd  do  anything." 

Slingerland  shoved  out  a  horny  hand  and  made  a  giant 
grip  express  what  evidently  just  then  he  could  not  express 
in  speech. 

Upon  returning  to  the  cabin  they  found  Allie  had  left 
her  room.  From  appearances  Neale  concluded  that  she 
had  made  little  use  of  the  things  he  had  brought  her.  He 
was  conscious  of  something  akin  to  impatience.  He  was 
not  sure  what  he  did  feel.  The  situation  had  subtly  changed 
and  grown,  all  in  that  brief  talk  with  Slingerland.  Neale 
slowly  walked  out  toward  the  brook,  where  he  expected  to 
find  her.  It  struck  him  suddenly  that  if  she  had  watched 
for  him  all  week  and  had  run  when  he  came,  then  she 
must  have  wanted  to  see  him,  but  was  afraid  or  shy  or 
perverse.  How  like  any  girl!  Possibly  in  the  week  past 
she  had  unconsciously  grown  a  little  away  from  her  grief. 

"I'll  try  something  new  on  you,  Allie,"  he  muttered,  and 
the  boy  in  him  that  would  never  grow  into  a  man  meant 
to  be  serious  even  in  his  fun. 

Allie  sat  in  the  shady  place  under  the  low  pine  where 
the  brook  spilled  out  of  the  big  spring.  She  drooped  and 
appeared  oblivious  to  her  surroundings.  A  stray  gleam  of 
sunlight,  touching  her  hair,  made  it  shine  bright.  Neale's 
quick  eye  took  note  of  the  fact  that  she  had  washed  the 
blood-stain  from  the  front  of  her  dress.  He  was  glad. 
What  hope  had  there  been  for  her  so  long  as  she  sat  hour 
after  hour  with  her  hands  pressed  to  that  great  black  stain 
on  her  dress — that  mark  where  her  mother's  head  had 
rested?  Neale  experienced  a  renewal  of  hope.  He  began 
to  whistle,  and,  drawing  his  knife,  he  went  into  the  brush 
to  cut  a  fishing-pole.  The  trout  in  this  brook  had 

50 


THE   l>.   P.   TRAIL 

tempted  his  fisherman's  eye,  and  upon  this  visit  he  had 
brought  a  line  and  hooks.  He  made  a  lot  of  noise  all  for 
Allie's  benefit ;  then,  tramping  out  of  the  brush,  he  began 
to  trim  the  rod  within  twenty  feet  of  where  she  sat.  He 
whistled;  he  even  hummed  a  song  while  he  was  rigging 
up  the  tackle.  Then  it  became  necessary  to  hunt  for  some 
kind  of  bait,  and  he  went  about  this  with  pleasure,  both 
because  he  liked  the  search  and  because,  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye,  he  saw  that  Allie  was  watching  him.  Therefore 
he  redoubled  his  efforts  at  pretending  to  be  oblivious  of  her 
presence  and  at  keeping  her  continually  aware  of  his. 
He  found  crickets,  worms,  and  grubs  under  the  dead  pine 
logs,  and  with  this  fine  variety  of  bait  he  approached  the 
brook. 

The  first  cast  Neale  made  fetched  a  lusty  trout,  and 
right  there  his  pretensions  of  indifference  vanished,  to 
gether  with  his  awareness  of  Allie's  proximity.  Neale  loved 
to  fish.  He  had  not  yet  indulged  his  favorite  pastime  in 
the  West.  He  saw  trout  jumping  everywhere.  It  was  a 
beautiful  little  stream,  rocky,  swift  here  and  eddying  there., 
clear  as  crystal,  murmurous  with  tiny  falls,  and  bordere< 
by  a  freshness  of  green  and  gold;  there  were  birds  singin^ 
in  the  trees,  but  over  all  seemed  to  hang  the  quiet  of  tlie 
lonely  hills.  Neale  forgot  Allie — forgot  that  he  had  meant 
to  discover  if  she  could  be  susceptible  to  a  little  neglect. 
The  brook  was  full  of  trout,  voracious  and  tame ;  they  had 
never  been  angled  for.  He  caught  three  in  short  order. 

When  his  last  bait,  a  large  and  luscious  grub,  struck  the 
water  there  was  a  swirl,  a  splash,  a  tug.  Neale  excitedly 
realized  that  he  had  hooked  a  father  of  the  waters.  It 
leaped.  That  savage  leap,  the  splash,  the  amazing  size  of 
the  fish,  inflamed  in  Neale  the  old  boyish  desire  to  capture, 
and,  forgetting  what  little  skill  he  possessed,  he  gave  a 
mighty  pull.  The  rod  bent  double.  Out  with  a  vicious 
splash  lunged  the  huge,  glistening  trout,  to  dangle  heavily 
for  an  instant  in  the  air.  Neale  thought  he  heard  a  cry 
Dehind  him.  He  was  sitting  down,  in  awkward  posture 

60 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

But  he  lifted  and  swung.  The  line  snapped.  The  fish 
dropped  in  the  grass  and  began  to  thresh.  Frantically 
Neale  leaped  to  prevent  the  escape  of  the  hugest  trout  he 
had  ever  seen.  There  was  a  dark  flash — a  commotion 
before  him.  Then  he  stood  staring  in  bewilderment  at 
Allie,  who  held  the  wriggling  trout  by  the  gills. 

"You  don't  know  how  to  fish!"  she  exclaimed,  with  great 
severity. 

"I  don't,  eh?"  ejaculated  Neale,  blankly. 

"You  should  play  a  big  trout.  You  lifted  him  right 
out.  He  broke  your  line.  He'd  have — gotten — away — but 
forme." 

She  ended,  panting  a  little  from  her  exertion  and  quick 
speech.  A  red  spot  showed  in  each  white  cheek.  Her  eyes 
were  resolute  and  flashing.  It  dawned  upon  Neale  that 
he  had  never  before  seen  a  tinge  of  color  in  her  face,  nor 
any  of  the  ordinary  feelings  of  life  glancing  in  her  eyes. 
Now  she  seemed  actually  pretty.  He  had  made  a  dis 
covery — perhaps  he  had  now  another  means  to  distract 
her  from  herself.  Then  the  squirming  trout  drew  his 
attention  and  he  took  it  from  her. 

"What  a  whopper!  Oh,  say,  Allie,  isn't  he  a  beauty? 
I  could  hug —  I —  You  bet  I'm  thankful.  You  were 
quick.  .  .  .  He  certainly  is  slippery." 

Allie  dropped  to  her  knees  and  wiped  her  hands  on  the 
grass  while  Neale  killed  the  fish  and  strung  it  upon  a  willow 
with  the  others  he  had  caught.  Then  turning  to  Allie, 
he  started  to  tell  her  how  glad  he  was  to  see  her  again, 
to  ask  her  if  she  were  glad  to  see  him.  But  upon  looking 
at  her  he  decided  to  try  and  keep  her  mind  from  herself. 
She  was  different  now  and  he  liked  the  difference.  He  feared 
he  might  frighten  it  away. 

"Will  you  help  me  get  more  bait?"  he  asked. 

Allie  nodded  and  got  up.  Then  Neale  noticed  her  feet 
were  bare.  Poor  child!  She  had  no  shoes  and  he  did 
not  know  how  to  procure  any  suitable  footwear  in  that 
wilderness. 

61 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Have  you  ever  fished  for  trout?"  he  asked,  as  he  began 
to  dig  under  a  rotting  log. 

' '  Yes.  In  California, ' '  she  replied,  with  sudden  shadowing 
of  her  eyes. 

"Let's  go  down  the  brook,"  said  Neale,  hastily,  fearful 
that  he  had  been  tactless.  "There  are  some  fine  holes 
below." 

She  walked  beside  him,  careful  of  the  sharp  stones  that 
showed  here  and  there.  Presently  they  came  to  a  likely- 
looking  pool. 

"If  you  hook  another  big  one  don't  try  to  pull  him  right 
out,"  admonished  Allie. 

Neale  could  scarcely  conceal  his  delight,  and  in  his  effort 
to  appear  natural  made  a  poor  showing  at  this  pool,  losing 
two  fish  and  scaring  others  so  they  would  not  rise. 

"Allie,  won't  you  try?"  he  asked,  offering  the  rod. 

"I'd  rather  look  on.    You  like  it  so  much." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  more  to  hear  her 
talk  than  from  curiosity. 

"You  grow  so  excited,"  she  said. 

Thankfully  he  accepted  the  realization  that  after  all 
these  weeks  of  silence  it  was  possible  to  make  her  speak. 
But  he  must  exercise  extreme  caution.  One  wrong  word 
might  send  her  back  into  that  apathy — that  senseless, 
voiceless  trance. 

In  every  pool  where  Neale  cast  he  caught  or  lost  a  trout. 
He  was  enjoying  himself  tremendously  and  at  the  same 
time  feeling  a  warmth  in  his  heart  that  was  not  entirely 
due  to  the  exhilaration  of  fishing.  Below  the  head  of  the 
valley,  where  the  stream  began  and  the  cabin  nestled,  the 
ground  was  open,  like  a  meadow,  with  grass  and  flowers 
growing  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  There  were  deep,  swirling 
pools  running  under  the  banks,  and  in  these  Neale  hooked 
fish  he  could  not  handle  with  his  poor  tackle,  and  they 
broke  away.  But  he  did  not  care.  There  was  a  brightness, 
a  beauty,  a  fragrance  along  the  stream  that  seemed  to 
enhance  the  farther  down  he  went.  Presently  they  cams 

62 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

to  a  place  where  the  water  rushed  over  a  rocky  bed,  and 
here  Neale  wanted  to  cross.  He  started  to  wade,  curious 
and  eager  to  see  what  Allie  would  do. 

"I  can't  wade  that,"  she  called. 

Neale  returned  to  her  side.  "I'll  carry  you,"  he  said. 
"You  hold  the  rod.  We'll  leave  the  fish  here."  Then  he 
lifted  her  in  his  arms.  How  light  she  was — how  much 
lighter  than  upon  that  first  occasion  of  his  carrying  her. 
He  slipped  in  the  middle  of  the  brook  and  nearly  fell 
with  her.  Allie  squealed.  The  sound  filled  Neale  with 
glee.  After  all,  and  whatever  she  had  gone  through,  she  was 
feminine — she  was  a  girl — she  was  squeamish.  Thereupon 
he  slipped  purposely  and  made  a  heroic  effort  to  save  him 
self.  She  clasped  his  neck  convulsively  with  her  free 
arm,  and  as  he  recovered  his  balance  her  head  bumped 
into  his  and  her  hair  got  into  his  eyes.  He  laughed.  This 
was  great  fun.  But  it  could  scarcely  have  been  the  exer 
tion  that  made  his  heart  beat  out  of  time.  At  last  he  gained 
the  opposite  bank. 

"You  nearly  fell  with  me,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I'd  have  got  wet,  too,"  he  replied,  wondering  if 
it  were  possible  to  make  her  laugh  or  even  smile.  If  he 
could  do  that  to-day,  even  in  the  smallest  degree,  he  would 
be  assured  that  happiness  might  come  back  to  her. 

Soon  they  met  Larry,  who  came  stooping  along,  burdened 
with  a  deer  carcass  on  his  shoulder.  Relieving  himself,  he 
hailed  them. 

"How  air  you-all?"  he  drawled,  addressing  himself  most 
ly  to  Allie. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  asked. 

"Allie,  he's  my  friend  and  partner,"  replied  Neale. 
"  Larry  King.  But  I  call  him  Red — for  obvious  rea 
sons." 

"Wai,  Miss  Allie,  I  reckon  no  tall  kick  would  be  a-comin* 
if  you  was  to  call  me  Red,"  drawled  Larry.  "Or  better— 
Reddy.  No  other  lady  ever  had  thet  honor  " 

Allie  looked  at  him  steadily,  as  if  this  was  the  first  time 

63 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

she  had  seen  him,  but  she  did  not  reply.  And  Larry, 
easily  disconcerted,  gathered  up  his  burden  and  turned 
toward  camp. 

"Wai,  I'm  shore  wishin'  you-all  good  luck,"  he  called, 
significantly. 

Neale  shot  a  quick  glance  at  Allie  to  see  if  the  cowboy  s 
good-humored  double  meaning  had  occurred  to  her.  But 
^apparently  she  had  not  heard.  She  seemed  to  be  tiring. 
Her  lips  were  parted  and  she  panted. 

"Are  you  tired?     Shall  we  go  back?"  he  asked. 

"No — I  like  it,"  she  returned,  slowly,  as  if  the  thought 
were  strange  to  her. 

They  fished  on,  and  presently  came  to  a  wide,  shallow 
place  with  smooth  rock  bottom,  where  the  trail  crossed. 
Neale  waded  across  alone.  And  he  judged  that  the  water 
in  the  middle  might  come  up  to  Allie's  knees. 

"Come  on,"  he  called. 

Allie  hesitated.  She  gathered  up  her  faded  skirt,  slowly 
waded  in  and  halted,  uncertain  of  her  footing.  She  was 
not  afraid,  Neale  decided,  and  neither  did  she  seem  aware 
that  her  slender,  shapely  legs  gleamed  white  against  the 
dark  water. 

"Won't  you  come  and  carry  me?"  she  asked. 

"Indeed  I  won't,"  replied  Neale.  "Carry  a  big  girl 
like  you!" 

She  took  him  seriously  and  moved  a  little  farther.  "  My 
feet  slip  so,"  she  said. 

It  became  fascinating  to  watch  her.     The  fun  of  it — the 

pleasure  of  seeing  a  girl  wade  a  brook,  innocently  immodest, 

suddenly  ceased  for  Neale.     There  was  something  else. 

k  He  had  only  meant  to  tease;   he  was  going  to  carry  her; 

>  he   started   back.     And   then  he  halted.     There   was    a 

strange  earnestness  in  Allie's  face — a  deliberateness  in  her 

intent,  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  exigency  of  the  moment. 

It  was  as  if  she  must  cross  that  brook.     But  she  kept 

halting.     ' '  Come  on !"  Neale  called.     And  she  moved  again. 

Every  time  this  happened  she  seemed  to  be  compelled  to 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

go  on.  When  she  got  into  the  swift  water,  nearly  to  her 
knees,  then  she  might  well  have  faltered.  Yet  she  did  not 
falter.  All  at  once  Neale  discovered  that  she  was  weak. 
She  did  not  have  the  strength  to  come  on.  It  was  that 
which  made  her  slip  and  halt.  What  then  made  her  try 
so  bravely?  How  strange  that  she  tried  at  all!  Stranger 
than  all  was  her  peculiar  attitude  toward  the  task — ear 
nest,  sober,  grave,  forced. 

Neale  was  suddenly  seized  with  surprise  and  remorse. 
That  which  actuated  this  girl  Allie  was  merely  the  sound 
of  his  voice — the  answer  to  his  demand.  He  plunged  in 
and  reached  her  just  as  she  was  slipping.  He  carried  her 
back  to  the  side  from  which  she  had  started.  It  cost  him 
an  effort  not  to  hold  her  close.  Whatever  she  was — orphan 
or  waif,  left  alone  in  the  world  by  a  murdering  band  of 
Sioux — an  unfortunate  girl  to  be  cared  for,  succored,  pitied 
— none  of  these  considerations  accounted  for  the  change 
that  his  power  over  her  had  wrought  in  him. 

"You're  not  strong,"  he  said,  as  he  put  her  down. 

"Was  that  it?"  she  asked,  with  just  a  touch  of  wonder. 
"I  used  to  wade — anywhere." 

He  spoke  little  on  the  way  back  up  the  brook,  for  he 
hesitated  to  tell  her  that  he  must  return  to  his  camp  so 
as  to  be  ready  for  important  work  on  the  morrow,  and  not 
until  they  were  almost  at  the  cabin  did  he  make  up  his 
mind.  She  received  the  intelligence  in  silence,  and  upon 
reaching  the  cabin  she  went  to  her  room. 

Neale  helped  Larry  and  Slingerland  with  the  task  of 
preparing  a  meal  that  all  looked  forward  to  having  Allie 
share  with  them.  However,  when  Slingerland  called  her 
there  was  no  response. 

Neale  found  her  sunk  in  the  old,  hopeless,  staring,  brood 
ing  mood.  He  tried  patience  at  first,  and  gentleness,  but 
without  avail.  She  would  not  come  with  him.  The  meal 
was  eaten  without  her.  Later  Neale  almost  compelled 
her  to  take  a  little  food.  He  felt  discouraged  again.  Time 
had  flown  all  too  swiftly,  and  there  was  Larry  coming  with 

65 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

the  horses  and  sunset  not  far  off.     It  might  be  weeks, 
even  months,  before  he  would  see  her  again. 

"Allie,  are  you  ever  going  to  cheer  up?"  he  demanded. 

"No— no,"  she  sighed. 

He  put  his  hand  under  her  chin,  and,  forcing  her  face  up, 
studied  it  earnestly.  Strained,  white,  bloodless,  thin,  with 
drooping  lips  and  tragic  eyes,  it  was  not  a  beautiful,  not 
even  a  pretty  face.  But  it  might  have  been  one — very 
easily.  The  veiled,  mournful  eyes  did  not  evade  his;  in 
deed,  they  appeared  to  stare  deeply,  hopelessly,  yearningly. 
If  he  could  only  say  and  do  the  right  thing  to  kill  that 
melancholia.  She  needed  to  be  made  to  live.  Suddenly 
he  had  the  impulse  to  kiss  her.  That,  no  doubt,  was  owing 
to  the  proximity  of  her  lips.  But  he  must  not  kiss  her. 
She  might  care  for  him  some  day — it  was  natural  to  im 
agine  she  would.  But  she  did  not  care  now,  and  that 
made  kisses  impossible. 

"You  just  won't  cheer  up?"  he  went  on. 

"No— no." 

"But  you  were  so  different  out  there  by  the  brook." 

She  made  no  reply.  The  veil  grew  darker,  more  shadowy, 
over  her  eyes.  Neale  divined  a  deadness  in  her. 

"I'm  going  away,"  he  said,  sharply. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  care?"  he  went  on,  with  greater  intensity. 

She  only  stared  at  him. 

"You  must  care!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  dully. 

"Why!  .  .  .  Because — because — "  he  stammered,  angry 
with  himself.  After  all,  why  should  she  care  ? 

"I  wish — you'd — left  me — to  die!"  she  moaned. 

"Oh!  Allie!  Allie!"  began  Neale,  in  distress.  Then  he 
caught  the  different  quality  in  her  voice.  It  carried 
feeling.  She  was  thinking  again.  He  swore  that  he  would 
overcome  this  malady  of  hers,  and  he  grew  keen,  subtle, 
on  fire  with  his  resolve.  He  watched  her.  He  put  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders  and  pulled  her  gently.  She  slid 

66 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

off  the  pile  of  buffalo  robes  to  her  knees  before  hiny  T2tea 
she  showed  the  only  hint  of  shyness  he  had  ever  noted  in 
her.  Perhaps  it  was  fear.  At  any  rate,  she  half  averted 
her  face,  so  that  her  loosened  hair  hid  it. 

"Allie!  Allie!  Listen!  Have  you  nothing  to  live  for?"  he 
asked. 

"No." 

"Why,  yes,  you  have." 

"What?" 

"Why,  I—  The  thing  is— Allie— you  have  me!"  he  said,  a 
little  hoarsely .  Then  he  laughed.  How  strange  his  laugh 
sounded!  He  would  always  remember  that  rude  room 
of  logs  and  furs  and  the  kneeling  girl  in  the  dim  light. 

"You!" 

"Yes,  me,"  he  replied,  with  a  ring  in  his  voice.  Never 
before  had  she  put  wonder  in  a  word.  He  had  struck  the 
right  chord  at  last.  Now  it  seemed  that  he  held  a  live 
creature  under  his  hands,  as  if  the  deadness  and  the  dread 
apathy  had  gone  away  forever  with  the  utterance  of  that 
one  syllable.  This  was  a  big  moment.  If  only  he  could 
make  up  to  her  for  what  she  had  lost!  He  felt  his  throat 
swell,  and  speech  was  difficult. 

"Allie,  do  you  understand  me  now?  You — have  some 
thing — to  live  for!  .  .  .  Do  you  hear?" 

When  his  ear  caught  the  faint  "Yes"  he  suddenly  grew 
glad  and  strong  with  what  he  felt  to  be  a  victory  over  her 
gloom  and  despair. 

"Listen.  I'm  going  to  my  work,"  he  began,  swiftly. 
"I'll  be  gone  weeks — maybe  more.  But  Til  come  back!  .  .  . 
Early  in  the  fall.  I'll  be  with  you  all  winter.  I'm  to  work 
here  on  the  pass.  .  .  .  Then — then —  Well,  I'll  be  a  big 
man  on  the  U.  P.  some  day.  Chief  engineer  or  superintend 
ent  of  maintenance  of  way.  .  .  .  You're  all  alone — 
maybe  you'll  care  for  me  some  day.  I'll  work  hard.  It's 
a  great  idea — this  railroad.  When  it's  done — and  I've  my 
big  job — will  you — you'll  marry  me  then?" 

Neale  heard  her  gasp  and  felt  her  quiver.    He  let  go  of 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

her  and  stood  up,  for  fear  he  might  suddenly  take  her  in 
his  arms.  His  words  had  been  shock  enough.  He  felt  re 
morse,  anxiety,  tenderness,  and  yet  he  was  glad.  Some 
delicate  and  fine  consciousness  in  him  told  him  he  had 
not  done  wrong,  even  if  he  had  been  dominating.  She 
was  alone  in  the  world ;  he  had  saved  her  life.  His  heart 
beat  quick  and  heavy. 

"Good-by,  Allie.  .  .  .  I'll  come  back.  Never  for 
get!" 

She  stayed  motionless  on  her  knees  with  the  mass  of 
hair  hiding  her  face,  and  she  neither  spoke  nor  made  a 
sign. 

Neale  went  out.  The  air  seemed  to  wave  in  his  face, 
cool  and  relieving.  Larry  was  there  with  the  horses. 
Slingerland  stood  by  with  troubled  eyes.  Both  men 
stared  at  Neale.  He  was  aware  of  that,  and  conscious 
of  his  agitation.  And  suddenly,  as  always  at  a  climax  of 
emotion,  he  swiftly  changed  and  grew  cool. 

"Red,  old  pard,  congratulate  me !  I'm  engaged  to  marry 
Allie !"  he  said,  with  a  low  laugh  that  had  pride  in  it. 

"Wai,  damn  me!"  ejaculated  Larry  King.  Then  he 
shot  out  the  hand  that  was  so  quick  with  rope  and  gun. 
"Put  her  thar!  Shore  if  you  hadn't  made  up  to  her  I'd 
have.  .  .  .  An',  Neale,  if  you  say  Pard,  I'm  yours  till 
I'm  daid !" 

"Pard !"  replied  Neale,  as  he  met  the  outstretched  hand. 

Slingerland's  hard  and  wrinkled  face  softened. 

"Strange  how  we  all  cottoned  to  thet  girl!  No — I 
reckon  it  ain't  so  strange.  Wai,  it's  as  it  oughter  be. 
You  saved  her.  May  you  both  be  happy,  son !" 

Neale  slipped  a  ring  from  his  little  finger. 

"Give  Allie  this.  Tell  her  it's  my  pledge.  I'll  come 
back  to  her.  And  she  must  think  of  that" 


68 


CHAPTER  VIII 

summer  the  engineers  crossed  the  Wyoming  hills 
and  ran  the  line  on  into  Utah,  where  they  met  the  sur 
veying  party  working  in  from  the  Pacific. 

The  initial  step  of  the  great  construction  work  was 
done,  the  engineers  with  hardship  and  loss  of  life  had  proved 
that  a  railroad  across  the  Rockies  was  a  possibility.  Only, 
they  had  little  conception  of  the  titanic  labor  involved 
in  the  building. 

For  Neale  the  months  were  hard,  swift,  full.  It  came 
to  him  that  love  of  the  open  and  the  wild  was  incorporated 
in  his  ambition  for  achievement.  He  wondered  if  he 
would  have  felt  the  one  without  the  other.  Camp  life 
and  the  daily  climbing  over  the  ridges  made  of  him  a  lithe, 
strong,  sure-footed  mountaineer.  They  made  even  the 
horse-riding  cowboy  a  good  climber,  though  nothing, 
Neale  averred,  would  ever  straighten  Larry's  bow  legs. 

Only  two  incidents  or  accidents  marred  the  work  and 
pleasure  of  those  fruitful  weeks. 

The  first  happened  in  camp.  There  was  a  surly  stake- 
driver  by  the  name  of  Shurd  who  was  lazy  and  otherwise 
offensive  among  hard-working  men.  Having  been  severely 
handled  by  Neale,  he  had  nursed  a  grievance  and  only 
waited  for  an  opportunity  for  revenge.  Neale  was  quick 
tempered,  and  prone  to  sharp  language  and  action  when 
irritated  or  angered.  Shurd,  passing  through  the  camp, 
either  drunk  or  unusually  surly,  had  kicked  Neale's  instru- 
ment  out  of  his  way.  Some  one  saw  him  do  it  and  told 
Neale.  Thereupon  Neale,  in  high  dudgeon,  had  sought  out 
the  fellow.  Larry  King,  always  Neale's  shadow,  came 
Blouching  after  with  his  cowboy's  gait.  They  found  Shurd 

69 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

At  the  camp  of  the  teamsters  and  other  laborers.  Neale 
.did  not  waste  many  words.  He  struck  Shurd  a  blow  that 
staggered  him,  and  would  have  followed  it  up  with  more  had 
not  the  man,  suddenly  furious,  plunged  away  to  pick  up  a 
heavy  stake  with  which  he  made  at  Neale  to  brain  him. 

Neale  could  not  escape.  He  yelled  at  Shurd,  trying  to 
intimidate  him. 

Then  came  a  shot  from  behind.  It  broke  Shurd's 
arm.  The  stake  fell  and  the  man  began  to  bawl  curses. 

"Get  out  of  heah!"  called  Larry  King,  advancing  slowly. 
The  maddened  Shurd  tried  to  use  the  broken  arm,  perhaps 
to  draw  on  King.  Thereupon  the  cowboy,  with  gun  low 
and  apparently  not  aiming,  shot  again,  this  time  almost 
tearing  Shurd's  arm  off.  Then  he  prodded  Shurd  with  the 
cocked  gun.  The  man  turned  ghastly.  He  seemed  just 
now  to  have  realized  the  nature  of  this  gaunt  flaming-eyed 
cowboy. 

"Shore  your  mind  ain't  workin',"  said  Larry.  "Get 
atit  of  heah.  Mozey  over  to  thet  camp  doctor  or  you'll 
never  need  one." 

Shurd  backed  away,  livid  and  shaking,  and  presently  he 
ran. 

"Red!  ..."  expostulated  Neale.  "You— you  shot 
him  all  up!  You  nearly  killed  him." 

"Why  in  hell  don't  you  pack  a  gun?"  drawled  Larry. 

"Red,  you're — you're —  I  don't  know  what  to  oJl  you, 
I'd  have  licked  him,  club  and  all." 

"Mebbe,"  replied  the  cowboy,  as  he  sheathed  the  big 
gun.  "Neale,  I'm  used  to  what  you  ain't.  Shore  I  can 
see  death  a-comin'.  Wai,  every  day  the  outfit  grows 
wilder.  A  little  whisky  '11  burn  hell  loose  along  this  heah 
U.  P.  line." 

Larry  strode  on  in  the  direction  Shurd  had  taken. 
Neale  pondered  a  moment,  perplexed,  and  grateful  to  his 
comrade.  He  heard  remarks  among  the  laborers,  and  he 
saw  the  flagman  Casey  remove  his  black  pipe  from  his  lips— 
an  unusual  occurrence. 

70 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"  Mac,  it  wus  thot  red-head  cowboy  wot  onct  p'inted  hi& 

gun  at  me!"  burst  out  Casey. 

"Did  yez  see  him  shoot?"  replied  Mac,  with  round  eyes0 
"Niver  aimed  an'  yit  he  hit!" 

Mike  Shane,  the  third  of  the  trio  of  Irish  laborers  in 
Neale's  corps,  was  a  little  runt  of  a  sandy-haired  wizened 
man,  and  he  spoke  up:  "Begorra,  he's  wan  of  thim  Texas 
Jacks.  He'd  loike  to  kill  yez,  Pat  Casey,  an'  if  he  ever 
throwed  thot  cannon  at  yez,  why,  runnin'  'd  be  slow  to 
phwat  yez  'd  do." 

"I  niver  run  in  me  loife,"  declared  Casey,  doggedly. 

Neale  went  his  way.  It  was  noted  that  from  that  day 
he  always  carried  a  gun,  preferably  a  rifle  when  it  was 
possible.  In  the  use  of  the  long  gun  he  was  an  adept,  but 
when  it  came  to  Larry's  kind  of  a  gun  Neale  needed  prac 
tice.  Larry  could  draw  his  gun  and  shoot  twice  before 
Neale  could  get  his  hand  on  his  weapon. 

It  was  through  Neale's  habit  of  carrying  the  rifle  out 
on  his  surveying  trips  that  the  second  incident  came 
about. 

One  day  in  early  summer  Neale  was  waiting  near  a  spring 
tor  Larry  to  arrive  with  the  horses.  On  this  occasion  the 
cowboy  was  long  in  coming.  Neale  fell  asleep  in  the  shade 
of  some  bushes  and  was  awakened  by  the  thud  of  hoofa 
He  sat  up  to  see  Larry  in  the  act  of  kneeling  at  the  brook 
to  drink.  At  the  same  instant  a  dark  moving  object 
above  Larry  attracted  Neale's  quick  eye.  It  was  an 
Indian  sneaking  along  with  a  gun  ready  to  level.  Quick 
as  a  flash  Neale  raised  his  own  weapon  and  fired.  The 
Indian  fell  and  lay  still. 

Larry's  drink  was  rudely  disturbed  by  plunging  horses. 
When  he  had  quieted  them  he  turned  to  Neale. 

"So  you-all  was  heah.  Shore  you  scared  me.  What  'd 
you  shoot  at?" 

Neale  stared  and  pointed.  His  hand  shook.  He  felt 
cold,  sick,  hard,  yet  he  held  the  rifle  ready  to  fire  again. 
Larry  dropped  the  bridles  and,  pulling  his  gun,  he  climbed 

7i 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  bank  with  unusual  quickness  for  him.  Neale  saw 
him  stand  over  the  Indian. 

"Wai,  plumb  center!"  he  called,  with  a  new  note  in  his 
usually  indolent  voice.  "Come  heah!" 

"No!"  shouted  Neale,  violently.    "Is  he  dead?" 

"Daid!  Wai,  I  should  smile.  .  .  .  An' mebbe  he  ain't 
alone." 

The  cowboy  ran  down  to  his  horse  and  Neale  followed 
.suit.  They  rode  up  on  the  ridge  to  reconnoiter,  but  saw  no 
moving  objects. 

"I  reckon  thet  redskin  was  shore  a-goin'  to  plug  me," 
drawled  Larry,  as  they  trotted  homeward. 

"He  certainly  was,"  replied  Neale,  with  a  shudder. 

Larry  reached  a  long  hand  to  Neale's  shoulder.  He 
owed  his  life  to  his  friend.  But  he  did  not  speak  of  that. 
Instead  he  glanced  wisely  at  Neale  and  laughed. 

"Kinda  weak  in  the  middle,  eh?"  he  said.  "I  felt  thet 
way  once.  .  .  .  Pard,  if  you  ever  get  r'iled  you'll  be 
shore  bad." 

For  Neale  shooting  at  an  Indian  was  strikingly  different 
from  boyish  dreams  of  doing  it.  He  had  acted  so  swiftly 
that  it  seemed  it  must  have  been  instinctive.  Yet  thinking 
back,  slowly  realizing  the  nature  of  the  repellant  feeling 
within  him,  he  remembered  a  bursting  gush  of  hot  blood,  a 
pantherish  desire  to  leap,  to  strike — and  then  cool,  stern 
watchfulness.  The  whole  business  had  been  most  un 
pleasant. 

Upon  arriving  at  camp  they  reported  the  incident, 
and  they  learned  Indians  had  showed  up  at  various  points 
along  the  line.  Troopers  had  been  fired  upon.  Orders 
were  once  more  given  that  all  work  must  be  carried  on 
under  the  protection  of  the  soldiers,  so  that  an  ambush 
would  be  unlikely.  Meanwhile  a  detachment  of  troops 
would  be  sent  out  to  drive  back  the  band  of  Sioux. 

These  two  hard  experiences  made  actuality  out  of  what 
Neale's  chief  had  told  him  would  be  a  man's  game  in  a  wild 
time.  This  work  on  the  U.  P.  was  not  play  or  romance. 

72 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

But  the  future  unknown  called  alluringly  to  him.  In  his 
moments  of  leisure,  by  the  camp-fire  at  night,  he  re 
flected  and  dreamed  and  wondered.  And  these  reflections 
always  turned  finally  to  memory  of  Allie. 

The  girl  he  had  saved  seemed  far  away  in  mind  as 
well  as  in  distance.  He  tried  to  call  up  her  face — to  see 
it  in  the  ruddy  embers.  But  he  could  visualize  only  her 
eyes.  They  were  unforgetable  —  the  somber,  haunting 
shadows  of  thoughts  of  death.  Yet  he  remembered  that 
once  or  twice  they  had  changed,  had  become  wonderful, 
with  promise  of  exceeding  beauty. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  he  had  pledged  himself.  But 
he  had  no  regrets.  Time  had  not  made  any  difference, 
only  it  had  shown  him  that  his  pity  and  tenderness  were 
not  love.  Still  there  had  been  another  emotion  connected 
with  Allie — a  strange  thing  too  subtle  and  brief  for  him  to 
analyze;  when  away  from  her  he  lost  it.  Could  that  have 
been  love?  He  thought  of  the  day  she  waded  the  brook, 
the  feel  of  her  as  he  carried  her  in  his  arms;  and  of  that 
last  sight  of  her,  on  her  knees  in  the  cabin,  her  face  hidden, 
her  slender  form  still  as  a  statue.  His  own  heart  was 
touched.  Yet  this  was  not  love.  It  was  enough  for  Neale 
to  feel  that  he  had  done  what  he  would  have  applauded 
in  another  man,  that  he  seemed  the  better  for  his  pledge, 
that  the  next  meeting  with  Allie  was  one  he  looked  forward 
to  with  a  strange,  new  interest. 

September  came  and  half  sped  by  before  Neale,  with 
Larry  and  an  engineer  named  Service,  arrived  at  the 
head  of  Sherman  Pass  with  pack-burros  and  supplies,  ready 
to  begin  the  long  vigil  of  watching  the  snow  drift  over  the 
line  in  winter. 

They  were  to  divide  the  pass  between  them,  Service  to 
range  the  upper  half  and  Neale  the  lower.  As  there  were 
but  few  trees  up  in  that  locality,  and  these  necessary  for  a 
large  supply  of  fire-wood,  they  decided  not  to  attempt  build 
ing  a  cabin  for  Service,  but  to  dig  a  dugout.  This  wa6  » 

6  73 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

hole  hollowed  out  in  a  hillside  and  covered  with  roof  of 
branches  and  earth. 

No  small  job,  indeed,  was  it  to  build  a  satisfactory  dug 
out — one  that  was  not  conspicuous  from  every  ridge  for 
Indian  eyes  to  spy  out — and  warm  and  dry  and  safe.  They 
started  several  before  they  completed  one. 

"It  '11  be  lonesomer  for  you — and  colder,"  observed 
Neale. 

"I  won't  mind  that,"  replied  the  other. 

"  We'll  see  each  other  before  the  snow  flies,  surely." 

"Not  unless  you  come  up.  I'm  no  climber.  I've  got  a 
Dad  leg." 

"I'll  come,  then.  We  may  have  weeks  of  fine  weathei 
yet.  I'm  going  to  hunt  some." 

"Good  luck  to  you." 

So  these  comrades  parted.  They  were  only  two  of 
tne  intrepid  engineers  selected  to  brave  the  perils  and  hard 
ships  of  that  wild  region  in  winter,  to  serve  the  great  cause. 

The  golds  and  purples  of  autumn  mingled  with  the 
predominating  green  of  Slingerland's  valley.  In  one  place 
beaver  had  dammed  the  stream,  forming  a  small  lake,  and 
here  cranes  and  other  aquatic  birds  had  congregated. 
Neale  saw  beaver  at  work,  and  deer  on  the  hillside. 

"It's  been  three  months,"  he  soliloquized,  as  he  paused 
at  the  ford  which  Allie  had  so  bravely  and  weakly  tried 
to  cross  at  his  bidding.  "Three  months!  So  muck  can 
have  happened.  But  Slingerland  is  safe  from  Indians.  I 
hope— I  believe  I'll  find  her  well." 

He  was  a  prey  to  dread  and  yet  he  did  not  hurry.  Larry, 
driving  the  pack-train,  drew  on  ahead  and  passed  out  of 
sight  in  a  green  bend  of  the  brook.  At  length  Neale  saw 
a  column  of  blue  smoke  curling  up  above  the  trees,  and 
that  sight  relieved  him.  If  the  trapper  was  there,  the 
girl  would  be  with  him. 

At  this  moment  his  horse  shot  up  his  long  ears  and 
snorted. 

74 


THF    U.    P.   TRAIL 

A  gray  f  crm  glided  out  of  the  green  and  began  to  run  down 
the  trail  toward  him — a  lithe,  swift  girl  in  buckskin. 

"An  Indian  girl!"  ejaculated  Neale. 

But  her  face  was  white,  her  hair  tawny  and  flying  in 
the  wind.  Could  that  be  Allie?  It  must  be  she.  It  was. 

"Lord!  I'm  in  for  it!"  muttered  Neale,  dismounting, 
and  he  gazed  with  eager  eyes.  She  was  approaching 
quickly. 

"  Neale !  You've  come !"  she  cried,  and  ran  straight  upon 
him. 

He  hardly  recognized  her  face  or  her  voice,  but  what 
she  said  proclaimed  her  to  be  Allie.  She  enveloped  him. 
Her  arms,  strong,  convulsive,  clasped  him.  Up  came  her 
face,  white,  gleaming,  joyous,  strange  to  Neale,  but  he 
knew  somehow  that  it  was  held  up  to  be  kissed.  Dazedly 
he  kissed  her — felt  cool  sweet  lips  touch  his  lips  again 
and  then  again. 

"Allie!  .  .  .  I — I  hardly  knew  you!"  was  his  greeting. 
Now  he  was  holding  her,  and  he  felt  her  press  her  head 
closely  to  his  breast,  felt  the  intensity  of  what  must  have 
been  her  need  of  physical  contact  to  make  sure  he  was  here 
in  the  flesh.  And  as  he  held  her,  looking  down  upon  her, 
he  recognized  the  little  head  and  the  dull  gold  and  ripple 
of  chestnut  hair.  Yes — it  was  Allie.  But  this  new  Allie 
was  taller — up  to  his  shoulder — and  lithe  and  full-bosomed 
and  strong.  This  was  not  the  frail  girl  he  had  left. 

"I  thought — you'd — never,  never  come,"  she  murmured, 
clinging  to  him. 

"It  was — pretty  long,"  he  replied,  unsteadily.  "But 
I've  come.  .  .  .  And  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"You  didn't  know  me,"  she  said,  shyly.  "You  looked — 
it." 

"Well,  no  wonder.  I  left  a  thin,  pale  little  girl,  all  eyes — - 
and  what  do  I  find?  .  .  .  Let  me  look  at  you." 

She  drew  back  and  stood  before  him,  shy  and  modest, 
but  without  a  trace  of  embarrassment,  surely  the  sweetest 
and  loveliest  girl  he  had  ever  beheld.  Some  remembered 

75 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

trace  he  found  in  her  features,  perhaps  the  look,  the  shape 
of  her  eyes — all  else  was  unfamiliar.  And  that  all  else 
was  a  white  face,  blue-veined,  with  rich  blood  slowly 
mantling  to  the  broad  brow,  with  sweet  red  lips  haunting 
in  their  sadness,  with  glorious  eyes,  like  violets  drenched  in 
dew,  shadowy,  exquisite,  mournful  and  deep,  yet  radiant 
with  beautiful  light. 

Neale  recognized  her  beauty  at  the  instant  he  realized 
her  love,  and  he  was  so  utterly  astounded  at  the  one,  and 
overwhelmed  with  the  other,  that  he  was  mute.  A  powerful 
reaction  took  place  within  him,  so  strong  that  it  helped 
to  free  him  from  the  other  emotions.  He  found  his  tongue 
and  controlled  his  glance. 

"I  took  you  for  an  Indian  girl  in  all  this  buckskin,"  he 
said. 

"  Dress,  leggings,  moccasins,  I  made  them  all  myself,"  she 
replied,  sweeping  a  swift  hand  from  fringe  to  beads.  "Not 
A  single  button!  Oh,  it  was  hard — so  much  work!  But 
they're  more  comfortable  than  any  clothes  I  ever  had." 

"So  you've  not  been — altogether  idle  since  I  left?" 

"Since  that  day,"  and  she  blushed  exquisitely  at  the 
words,  "I've  been  doing  everything  under  the  sun  ex 
cept  that  grieving  which  you  disliked — everything — 
cooking,  sewing,  fishing,  bathing,  climbing,  riding,  shoot 
ing — and  watching  for  you." 

"That  accounts,"  he  replied,  musingly. 

"For  what?" 

"Your — your  improvement.  You  seem  happy — and 
well." 

"Do  you  mean  the  activity  accounts  for  that — or  my 
watching  for  you?"  she  queried,  archly.  She  was  quick, 
bright,  roguish.  Neale  had  no  idea  what  qualities  she 
might  have  possessed  before  that  fateful  massacre,  but  she 
was  bewilderingly  different  from  the  sick-minded  girl  he 
had  tried  so  hard  to  interest  and  draw  out  of  her  gloom. 
He  was  so  amazed,  so  delighted  with  her,  and  so  confused 
with  his  own  peculiar  state  of  mind,  that  he  could  not  be 

76 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

natural.  Then  his  mood  shifted  and  a  little  heat  at  his 
own  stupidity  aroused  his  wits. 

"Allie,  I  want  to  realize  what's  happened,"  he  said. 
"Let's  sit  down  here.  We  sat  here  once  before,  if  you  re 
member.  Slingerland  can  wait  to  see  me." 

Neale's  horse  grazed  along  the  green  border  of  the  brook. 
The  water  ran  with  low,  swift  rush ;  there  were  bees  hum 
ming  round  the  autumn  flowers  and  a  fragrance  of  wood- 
smoke  wafted  down  from  the  camp ;  over  all  lay  the  dream 
ing  quietness  of  the  season  and  the  wild. 

Allie  sat  down  upon  the  rock,  but  Neale,  changing  his 
mind,  stood  beside  her.  Still  he  did  not  trust  himself  to 
face  her.  He  was  unsettled,  uncertain.  All  this  was  like  a 
dream. 

"So  you  watched  for  me?"  he  asked,  gently. 

"For  hours  and  days  and  weeks,"  she  sighed. 

"Then  you — cared — cared  a  little  for  me?" 

She  kept  silence.  And  he,  wanting  intensely  to  look 
up,  did  not. 

"Tell  me,"  he  insisted,  with  a  hint  of  the  old  dominance. 
He  remembered  again  the  scene  at  the  crossing  of  the 
brook.  Could  he  control  this  wonderful  girl  now? 

"Of  course,"  she  replied. 

"But — how  do  you  care?"  he  added,  more  forcibly.  He 
felt  ashamed,  yet  he  could  not  resist  it.  What  was  happen 
ing  to  him? 

"I — I  love  you."  Her  voice  was  low,  almost  faltering, 
rich  with  sweetness,  and  full  of  some  unutterable  emo 
tion. 

Neale  sustained  a  shock.  He  never  could  have  told 
how  that  affected  him,  except  in  his  sudden  fury  at  him 
self.  Then  he  stole  a  glance  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  down 
cast,  hidden  under  long  lashes;  her  face  was  soft  and 
sweet,  dreaming  and  spiritual,  singularly  pure;  her  breast 
heaved  under  the  beaded  buckskin.  Neale  divined  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  owing  him  anything  except  the 
maiden  love  which  quivered  on  her  tremulous  lips  and 

77 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

hovered  in  the  exquisite  light  of  her  countenance.  And 
now  he  received  a  great  and  impelling  change  in  his  spirit, 
an  uplift,  a  splendid  and  beautiful  consciousness  of  his 
good  fortune.  But  what  could  he  say  to  her?  If  only  he 
could  safely  pass  over  this  moment,  so  he  could  have  time 
to  think,  to  find  himself.  Another  glance  at  her  encouraged 
him.  She  expected  nothing — not  a  word;  she  took  all 
for  granted.  She  was  lost  in  dreams  of  her  soul. 

He  looked  down  again  to  see  her  hand — small,  shapely, 
strong  and  brown;  and  upon  the  third  finger  he  espied  his 
ring.  He  had  forgotten  to  look  to  see  if  she  wore  it.  Then 
softly  he  touched  it  and  drew  her  hand  in  his. 

"My  ring.    Oh,  Allie!"  he  whispered. 

The  response  was  a  wonderful  purple  blaze  of  her  eyes. 
He  divined  then  that  his  ring  had  been  the  tangible  thing 
upon  which  she  had  reconstructed  her  broken  life. 

"You  rode  away — so  quickly — I  had  no  chance  to — 
tell,"  she  replied,  haltingly  and  low- voiced.  All  was  sweet 
shame  about  her  now,  and  he  had  to  fight  himself  to  keep 
from  gathering  her  to  his  breast.  Verily  this  meeting 
between  Allie  and  him  was  not  what  he  had  anticipated. 

He  kissed  her  hand. 

"You've  all  the  fall  and  all  the  winter  to  tell  me  such 
sweet  things,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  to-morrow  I'll  find  my 
tongue  and  tell  you  something." 

"Tell  me  now,"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Well,  you're  beautiful,"  he  replied,  with  strong  feeling. 

"Really?"  she  smiled,  and  that  smile  was  the  first  he 
had  ever  seen  upon  her  face.  It  brought  out  the  sadness, 
the  very  soul  of  her  great  beauty.  "I  used  to  be  pretty/' 
she  went  on,  naively.  "But  if  I  remember  how  I  used  to 
look  I'm  not  pretty  any  more." 

Neale  laughed.  He  had  begun  to  feel  freer,  and  to  accept 
this  unparalleled  situation  with  some  composure. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  with  gentle  voice  and  touch — "tell  me 
your  name.  Allie — what?" 

"Didn't  you  ever  know?"  she  asked. 

78 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"You  said  Allie.    That  was  all." 

He  feared  this  call  to  her  memory,  yet  he  wanted  to  put 
her  to  a  test.  Her  eyes  dilated — the  light  shaded;  they 
grew  sad,  dark,  humid  gulfs  of  thought.  But  the  old, 
somber  veil,  the  insane,  brooding  stare,  did  not  return. 

"Allie  what?"  he  repeated. 

Then  the  tears  came,  softening  and  dimming  the  pain. 
"Allie  Leer"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OLINGERLAND  appeared  younger  to  Neale.  The  bur- 
O  den  of  loneliness  did  not  weigh  upon  him,  and  the  habit 
of  silence  had  been  broken.  Neale  guessed  why,  and  was 
actually  jealous. 

"Wai,  it's  beyond  my  calculatin',"  the  trapper  said,  out 
by  the  spring,  where  Neale  followed  him.  "She  jest 
changed,  thet's  all  Not  so  much  at  first,  though  she 
sparked  up  after  I  give  her  your  ring.  I  reckon  it  come 
little  by  little.  An'  one  day,  why,  the  cabin  was  full  of 
sunshine!  .  .  .  Since  then  I've  seen  how  she's  growed  an' 
brightened.  Workin',  runnin'  after  me — an'  always 
watchin'  fer  you,  Allie's  changed  to  what  she  is  now. 
Onct,  fur  back,  I  recollect  she  said  she  had  you  to  live  fer. 
Mebbe  thet's  the  secret.  Anyhow,  she  loves  you  as  I  never 
seen  any  man  loved.  .  .  .  An',  son,  I  reckon  you  oughter 
be  somewhars  ne^r  the  kingdom  of  heaven!" 

Neale  stole  off  by  himself  and  walked  in  the  twilight. 
The  air  was  warm  and  sultry,  full  of  fragrance  and  the 
low  chirp  of  crickets.  Within  his  breast  was  a  full  uneasy 
sensation  of  imminent  catastrophe.  Something  was  rising 
in  him — great — terrible — precious.  It  bewildered  him 
to  try  to  think  of  himself,  of  his  strange  emotions,  when  his 
mind  seemed  to  hold  only  Allie. 

What  then  had  happened?  After  a  long  absence  up  in 
the  mountains  he  had  returned  to  Slingerland's  valley  home, 
and  to  the  little  girl  he  had  rescued  and  left  there.  He  had 
left  her  frail,  sick-minded,  silent,  somber,  a  pale  victim  to  a 
horrible  memory.  He  had  found  her  an  amazing  contrast 
to  what  she  had  been  in  the  past.  She  had  grown  strong, 

80 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

active,  swift.  She  was  as  lovely  as  a  wild  rose.  No  dream 
of  his  idle  fancy,  but  a  fact !  Then  last — stirring  him  even 
as  he  tried  to  clarify  and  arrange  this  magic,  this  mystery — 
had  come  the  unbelievable,  the  momentous  and  dazzling 
assurance  that  she  loved  him.  It  was  so  plain  that  it 
seemed  unreal.  While  near  her  he  saw  it,  yet  could  not 
believe  his  eyes;  he  felt  it,  but  doubted  his  sensibilities. 
But  now,  away  from  the  distraction  of  her  presence  and 
with  Slingerland's  eloquent  words  ringing  in  his  ears,  he 
realized  the  truth.  Love  of  him  had  saved  the  girl's  mind 
and  had  made  her  beautiful  and  wonderful.  He  had  heard 
of  the  infinite  transforming  power  of  love;  here  in  Allie 
Lee  was  its  manifestation.  Whether  or  not  he  deserved 
such  a  blessing  was  not  the  question.  It  was  his,  and  he 
felt  unutterably  grateful  and  swore  he  would  be  worthy  of 
this  great  gift. 

Darkness  had  set  in  when  Neale  returned  to  the  cabin, 
the  interior  of  which  was  lighted  by  blazing  sticks  in  a 
huge  stone  fireplace. 

Slingerland  was  in  the  shadow,  busy  as  usual,  but  laugh 
ing  at  some  sally  of  Larry's.  The  cowboy  and  Allie,  how 
ever,  were  in  plain  sight.  Neale  needed  only  one  look  at 
Larry  to  divine  what  had  come  over  that  young  man. 
Allie  appeared  perplexed. 

"He  objects  to  my  calling  him  Mr.  King  and  even 
Larry,"  she  said. 

Larry  suddenly  looked  sheepish. 

"Allie,  this  cowboy  is  a  bad  fellow  with  guns,  ropes* 
horses — and  I  suspect  with  girls,"  replied  Neale,  severely. 

"Neale,  he  doesn't  look  bad,"  she  rejoined.  "You're 
fooling  me.  ...  He  wants  me  to  call  him  Reddy." 

"Ahuh!"  grunted  Neale.  He  laughed  grimly  at  him 
self,  for  again  he  had  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy.  He  knew 
what  to  expect  from  Larry  or  any  other  young  man  who 
ever  had  the  wonderful  good  luck  to  get  near  Allie  Lee. 
"All  right,  call  him  Reddy,"  he  went  on.  "I  guess  I  cm 

It 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

allow  my  future  wife  so  much  familiarity  with  my 
pard." 

This  confused  Allie  out  of  her  sweet  gravity,  and  she 
blushed. 

"Shore  you're  mighty  kind,"  drawled  Larry,  re 
covering.  "More  'n  I  reckoned  on  from  a  fellar  who's 
shore  lost  his  haid." 

"I've  lost  more  'n  that,"  retorted  Neale,  "and  I'm  afraid 
a  certain  wild  young  cowboy  I  know  has  lost  as  much." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  somethin'  aboot  this  heah  place  of 
Slingerland's  draws  on  a  fellar,"  admitted  Larry,  re 
signedly. 

Allie  did  not  long  stay  embarrassed  by  their  sallies. 

"Neale,  tell  me— " 

"See  heah,  Allie,  if  you  call  me  Reddy  an'  him  only 
Neale — why  he's  a-goin'  to  pitch  into  me,"  interrupted 
Larry,  with  twinkling  eyes.  "An'  he's  shore  a  bad  cus 
tomer  when  he's  r'iled." 

"Only  Neale?    What  does  he  mean?"  inquired  Allie. 

"Beyond  human  conjecture,"  replied  Neale,  laughing. 

"Wai,  don't  you  know  his  front  name?"  asked  Larry. 

"Neale.    I  call  him  that,"  she  replied. 

"Haw!    Haw!   But  it  ain't  thet." 

"Allie,  my  name  is  Warren,"  said  Neale.  "You've  for 
gotten." 

"Ch!  .  .  .  Well,  it's  always  been  Neale — and  always 
will  be." 

Larry  rose  and  stretched  his  long  arms  for  the  pipe  on 
the  rude  stone  chimney. 

"Slingerland,"  he  drawled,  "these  heah  young  people 
need  to  find  out  who  they  are.  An'  I  reckon  we'd  do  wal 
to  go  oot  an'  smoke  an'  talk." 

The  trapper  came  forth  from  the  shadows,  and  as  he 
filled  his  pipe  his  keen,  bright  gaze  shifted  from  the  task 
to  his  friends. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  an'  hyar  you,"  he  said.  "I  was  a 
youngster  onct.  I  missed — but  thet's  no  matter.  .  .  . 

82 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Live  while  you  may!  .  .  .  Larry,  come  with  me.    I've 
got  a  trap  to  set  yit." 

Allie  flashed  a  glance  at  them. 

"It's  not  so.    You  never  set  traps  after  dark." 

"  Wai,  child,  any  excuse  is  better  'n  none.  Neale  wouldn't 
never  git  to  hyar  you  say  all  thet  sweet  talk  as  is  comin' 
to  him — if  two  old  fools  hung  round." 

"Slingerland,  I've  throwed  a  gun  fer  less  'n  thet,"  drawled 
Larry.  "Aboot  the  fool  part  I  ain't  shore,  but  I  was 
twenty-five  yesterday — an'  I'm  sixteen  to-day." 

They  lit  their  pipes  with  red  embers  scraped  from  the 
fire,  and  with  wise  nods  at  Neale  and  Allie  passed  out  into 
the  dark. 

Allie's  eyes  were  upon  Neale,  with  shy,  eloquent  intent, 
and  directly  the  others  had  departed  she  changed  her  seat 
to  one  close  to  Neale;  she  nestled  against  his  shoulder,  her 
face  to  the  fire. 

"They  thought  we  wanted  to  make  love,  didn't  they?" 
she  said,  dreamily. 

"I  guess  they  did,"  replied  Neale. 

He  was  intensely  fascinated.  Did  she  want  him  to  make 
love  to  her?  A  look  at  her  face  was  enough  to  rebuke 
him  for  the  thought.  The  shadows  from  the  flickering  fire 
played  over  her. 

"Tell  me  all  about  yourself,"  she  said.  "Then  about 
your  work." 

Neale  told  all  that  he  thought  would  interest  her  about 
his  youth  in  the  East  with  a  widowed  mother,  the  home 
that  was  broken  up  after  she  died,  and  his  working  his  way 
through  a  course  of  civil  engineering. 

"I  was  twenty  when  I  first  read  about  this  U.  P.  rail 
road  project,"  he  went  on.  "That  was  more  than  three 
years  ago.  It  decided  me  on  my  career.  I  determined 
to  be  an  engineer  and  be  in  the  building  of  the  road.  No 
one  had  any  faith  in  the  railroad.  I  used  to  be  laughed 
at.  But  I  stuck.  And — well,  I  had  to  steal  some  rides  to 
get  as  far  west  as  Omaha. 

83 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"That  was  more  than  a  year  ago.  I  stayed  there — 
waiting.  Nothing  was  sure,  except  that  the  town  grew 
like  a  mushroom.  It  filled  with  soldiers — and  the  worst 
crowd  I  ever  saw.  You  can  bet  I  was  shaky  when  I  finally 
got  an  audience  with  General  Lodge  and  his  staff.  They 
had  an  office  in  a  big  storehouse.  The  place  was  full  of 
men — soldiers  and  tramps.  It  struck  me  right  off  what  a 
grim  and  discouraged  bunch  those  engineers  looked.  I 
didn't  understand  them,  but  I  do  now.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
asked  for  a  job.  Nobody  appeared  to  hear  me.  It  was 
hard  to  make  yourself  heard.  I  tried  again — louder.  An 
old  engineer,  whom  I  know  now — Henney — waved  me 
aside.  Just  as  if  a  job  was  unheard  of!" 

Neale  quickened  and  warmed  as  he  progressed,  aware 
now  of  a  little  hand  tight  in  his,  of  an  interest  that  would 
have  made  any  story-telling  a  pleasure. 

"Well,  I  felt  sick.  Then  mad.  When  I  get  mad  I  do 
things.  I  yelled  at  that  bunch:  'Here,  you  men!  I've 
walked  and  stole  rides  to  get  here.  I'm  a  surveyor.  You're 
going  to  build  a  railroad.  I  want  a  job  and  I'm  going  to 
get  it.' 

"My  voice  quieted  the  hubbub.  The  old  engineer, 
Henney,  looked  queerly  at  me. 

"  'Young  man,  there's  not  going  to  be  any  railroad.' 

"Then  I  blurted  out  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  rail 
road.    Some  one  spoke  up:    'Who  said  that?    Fetch  him 
here.'    Pretty  soon  I  was  looking  at  Major-General  Lodge. 
He  was  just  from  the  war  and  he  looked  it.     Stern  and» 
dark,  with  hard  lines  and  keen  eyes.    He  glanced  me  over. 

"  'There  is  going  to  be  a  railroad?'  he  questioned,  sharply. 

"'Of  course  there  is,1  I  replied.  I  felt  foolish,  disap 
pointed. 

'"You're  right/  he  said,  and  I'll  never  forget  his  eyes. 
'I  can  use  a  few  more  young  fellows  like  you/  And  that's 
how  I  got  on  the  staff. 

"Well,  we  ran  a  quick  survey  west  to  the  bad  lands — 
for  it  was  out  here  that  we  must  find  success  or  failure* 

84 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

And  Allie,  it's  all  been  like  the  biggest  kind  of  an  adven- 
iure.  The  troops  and  horses  and  camps  and  trails — the 
Indian  country  with  its  threats  from  out  of  the  air — the 
wild  places  with  their  deer,  buffalo,  panthers,  trappers 
like  Slingerland,  scouts,  and  desperadoes.  It  began  to  get 
such  a  hold  on  me  that  I  was  wild.  That  might  have  been 
bad  for  me  but  for  my  work.  I  did  well.  Allie,  I  ran  lines 
for  the  U.  P.  that  no  other  engineer  could  run." 

Neale  paused,  as  much  from  the  squeeze  Allie  suddenly 
"gave  him  as  for  an  instant's  rest  to  catch  his  breath. 

"I  mean  I  had  the  nerve  to  tackle  cliffs  and  dangerous 
slopes,"  he  went  on.  Then  he  told  how  Larry  Red  King 
had  saved  his  life,  and  that  recollection  brought  back  his 
service  to  the  cowboy;  then  naturally  followed  the  two 
dominating  incidents  of  the  summer. 

Allie  lifted  a  blanched  face  and  darkening  eyes.  "Neale! 
You  were  in  danger." 

"Oh,  not  much,  I  guess.    But  Red  thought  so." 

"He  saved  you  again!  .  .  .  I — I'll  never  forget 
that." 

"Anyway,  we're  square,  for  he'd  have  got  shot  sure  the 
day  the  Indian  sneaked  up  on  him."  Allie  shuddered 
and  shrank  back  to  Neale,  while  he  hastily  resumed  his 
story.  "We're  great  pards  now,  Red  and  I.  He  doesn't 
say  much,  but  his  acts  tell.  He  will  not  let  me  alone. 
He  follows  me  everywhere.  It's  a  joke  among  the  men.  .  .  . 
Well,  Allie,  it  seems  unbelievable  that  we  have  crossed 
the  mountains  and  the  desert — grade  ninety  feet  to  the 
mile!  The  railroad  can  and  will  be  built.  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  how  tremendously  all  this  has  worked  upon  me — 
upon  all  the  engineers.  But  somehow  I  can't.  It  chokes 
me.  The  idea  is  big.  But  the  work — what  shall  I  call 
that?  .  .  .  Allie,  if  you  can,  imagine  some  spirit  seizing 
hold  of  you  and  making  you  see  difficulties  as  joys — im 
possible  tasks  as  only  things  to  strike  fire  from  genius, 
perils  of  death  as  merely  incidents  of  daring  adventure  to 
treasure  in  memory — well  that's  something  like  it.  The 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

idea  of  the  U.  P.  has  got  me.    I  believe  in  it.    I  shall  see  it 

accomplished.  .  .  .I'll  live  it  all." 

Allie  moved  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  up  at 
him  with  eyes  that  made  him  ashamed  of  his  egotism,  she 
said,  "Then,  when  it's  done  you'll  be  chief  of  engineers  or 
superintendent  of  maintenance  of  way?" 

She  had  remembered  his  very  words. 

"Allie,  I  hope  so,"  he  replied,  thrilling  at  her  faitht 
"I'll  work — I'll  get  some  big  position." 

Next  day  ushered  in  for  Neale  a  well-earned  rest,  and 
he  proceeded  to  enjoy  it  to  the  full. 

The  fall  had  always  been  Neale's  favorite  season.  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  the  aspect  of  it  was  flaming  and  golden,  bu^ 
different  from  what  he  had  known  hitherto.  Dreamin£ 
silence  of  autumn  held  the  wildness  and  loneliness  of  the 
Wyoming  hills.  The  sage  shone  gray  and  purple,  the  ridges 
yellow  and  gold;  the  valleys  were  green  and  amber  and 
red.  No  dust,  no  heat,  no  wind — a  clear,  blue,  cloudless 
sky,  sweet  odors  in  the  still  air — it  was  a  beautiful  time. 

Days  passed  and  nights  passed,  as  if  on  wings.  Every 
waking  hour  drew  him  closer  to  this  incomparable  girl  who 
had  arisen  upon  his  horizon  like  a  star.  He  knew  the 
hour  was  imminent  when  he  must  read  his  heart.  He  fought 
it  off;  he  played  with  his  bliss.  Allie  was  now  his  shadow 
instead  of  the  faithful  Larry,  although  the  cowboy  was 
often  with  them,  adapting  himself  to  the  changed  condi 
tions,  too  big  and  splendid  to  be  envious  or  jealous.  They 
fished  down  the  brook,  and  always  at  the  never-to-be-for 
gotten  ford  he  would  cross  first  and  turn  to  see  her  follow. 
She  could  never  understand  why  Neale  would  delight  in 
carrying  her  across  at  other  points,  yet  made  her  ford  this 
one  by  herself. 

"It's  such  a  bother  to  take  off  moccasins  and  leggings," 
she  would  say. 

They  rode  horseback  up  and  down  the  trails  that  Slinger- 
land  assured  them  were  safe.  And  it  was  the  cowboy 

86 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Larry  who  lent  his  horse  and  taught  her  a  flying  mount; 
he  said  she  would  make  a  rider. 

In  the  afternoons  they  would  climb  the  high  ridge,  and 
on  the  summit  sit  in  the  long  whitening  grass  and  gaze  out 
over  the  dim  and  purple  vastness  of  the  plains.  In  the 
twilight  they  walked  under  the  pines.  When  night  set  in 
and  the  air  grew  cold  they  would  watch  the  ruddy  fire  on 
the  hearth  and  see  pictures  of  the  future  there,  and  feel  a 
warmth  on  hand  and  cheek  that  was  not  all  from  the 
cheerful  blaze. 

Neale  found  it  strange  to  realize  how  his  attachment 
for  Larry  had  changed  to  love.  All  Neale's  spiritual  being 
was  undergoing  a  great  and  vital  change,  but  this  was  not 
the  reason  he  loved  Larry.  It  was  because  of  Allie.  The 
cowboy  was  a  Texan  and  he  had  inherited  the  Southerner's 
fine  and  chivalric  regard  for  women.  Neale  never  knew 
whether  Larry  had  ever  had  a  sister  or  a  sweetheart  or  a 
girl  friend.  But  at  sight  Larry  had  become  Allie 's  own; 
not  a  brother  or  a  friend  or  a  lover,  but  something  bigger 
and  higher.  The  man  expanded  under  her  smiles,  her 
teasing,  her  playfulness,  her  affection.  Neale  had  no 
pang  in  divining  the  love  Larry  bore  Allie.  Drifter,  cow 
boy,  gun-thrower,  man-killer,  whatever  he  had  been,  the 
light  of  this  girl's  beautiful  eyes,  her  voice,  her  touch,  had 
worked  the  last  marvel  in  man — forgetfulness  of  self.  And 
so  Neale  loved  him. 

It  made  Neale  quake  inwardly  to  think  of  the  change 
being  wrought  in  himself.  It  made  him  thoughtful  of 
many  things.  There  was  much  in  life  utterly  new  to  him. 
He  had  listened  to  a  moan  in  his  keen  ear;  he  had  felt  a 
call  of  something  helpless;  he  had  found  a  gleam  of  chest 
nut  hair;  he  had  stirred  two  other  men  to  help  him  be 
friend  a  poor,  broken-hearted,  half-crazed  orphan  girl. 
And,  lo!  the  world  had  changed,  his  friends  had  grown 
happier  in  their  unloved  lives,  a  strange  strength  had  come 
to  him,  and,  sweetest,  most  wonderful  of  all,  in  the  place 

87 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

of  the  helpless  and  miserable  waif  appeared  a  woman, 
lovely  of  face  and  form,  with  only  a  ghost  of  sadness  haunt 
ing  her  eyes,  a  woman  adorable  and  bright,  with  the  magic 
of  love  on  her  lips. 

October  came.  In  the  early  morning  and  late  afternoon 
a  keen  cold  breath  hung  in  the  air.  Slingerland  talked  of 
a  good  prospect  for  fur.  He  chopped  great  stores  of  wood. 
Larry  climbed  the  hills  with  his  rifle.  Neale  walked  the 
trails  hand  in  hand  with  Allie. 

He  had  never  sought  to  induce  her  to  speak  of  her 
past,  though  at  times  the  evidence  of  refinement  and 
education  and  mystery  around  her  made  strong  appeal  to 
him.  She  could  tell  her  story  whenever  she  liked  or  never— 
it  did  not  greatly  matter. 

Then,  one  day,  quite  naturally,  but  with  a  shame  she 
did  not  try  to  conceal,  she  confided  to  him  part  of  the 
story  her  mother  had  told  her  that  dark  night  when  the 
Sioux  were  creeping  upon  the  caravan. 

Neale  was  astounded,  agitated,  intensely  concerned. 

"Allie!  .    .    .  Your  father  lives!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  must  find  him — take  you  to  him." 

"Do  what  you  think  best,"  she  replied,  sadly.  "But  I 
never  saw  him.  I've  no  love  for  him.  And  he  never  knew 
I  was  born." 

"Is  it  possible?  How  strange!  .  .  .  If  any  man  could 
see  you  now!  Allie,  do  you  resemble  your  mother?" 

"Yes,  we  were  alike." 

"Where  is  your  father?"  Neale  went  on,  curiously. 

"How  should  I  know?  It  was  in  New  Orleans  that 
mother  ran  off  from  him.  I — I  never  blamed  her — since  she 
said  what  she  said.  .  .  .  Do  you?  Will  this — make  any 
difference  to  you?" 

"My  God,  no!  But  I'm  so — so  thunderstruck.  .  .  . 
This  man — this  Durade — tell  me  more  of  him." 

"He  was  a  Spaniard  of  high  degree,  an  adventurer,  a 

88 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

gambler.  He  was  mad  to  gamble.  He  forced  my  mother 
to  use  her  beauty  to  lure  men  to  his  gambling-hell.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it's  terrible  to  remember.  She  said  he  meant  to  use 
me  for  that  purpose.  That's  why  she  left  him.  But  in  a  way 
he  was  good  to  me.  I  can  see  so  many  things  now  to  prove 
he  was  wicked.  .  .  .  And  mother  said  he  would  follow 
her — track  her  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

"Allie!  If  he  should  find  you  some  day!"  exclaimed 
Neale,  hoarsely. 

She  put  her  arms  up  round  his  neck.  And  that,  follow 
ing  a  terrible  pang  of  dread  in  Neale's  breast,  was  too 
much  for  him.  The  tide  burst.  Love  had  long  claimed 
him,  but  its  utterance  had  been  withheld.  He  had  been 
happy  in  her  happiness.  He  had  trained  himself  to  spare  her. 

"But  some  day — I'll  be — your  wife,"  she  whispered. 

"Soon?    Soon?"  he  returned,  trembling. 

The  scarlet  fired  her  temples,  her  brow,  darkening  the 
skin  under  her  bright  hair. 

"That's  for  you  to  say." 

She  held  up  her  lips,  tremulous  and  sweet. 

Neale  realized  the  moment  had  come.  There  had  never 
been  but  the  one  kiss  between  them — that  of  the  meeting 
upon  his  return  in  September. 

"Allie,  I  love  you!"    He  spoke  thickly. 

"And  I  love  you,"  she  replied,  with  sweet  courage. 

"This  news  you've  told — this  man  Durade,"  he  went  on, 
hoarsely.  "I'm  suddenly  alive — stinging — wild!  .  .  . 
If  I  lost  you!" 

"Dear,  you  will  never  lose  me — never  in  this  world  oc 
any  other,"  she  replied,  tenderly. 

"My  work,  my  hope,  my  life,  they  all  get  spirit  now  from 
you.  .  .  .  Allie!  You're  sweet — oh,  so  sweet!  You're 
glorious!"  he  rang  out,  passionately. 

Surprise  momentarily  checked  the  rising  response  of  her 
feeling. 

"Neale!  You've  never  before  said — such — things!  .  .  . 
And  the  way  you  look!" 

7  89 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIU 

"How  do  I  look  ?"  he  queried,  seeing  the  joyousness  of 
her  surprise. 

Then  she  laughed  and  that  was  new  to  him — a  sound 
low,  unutterably  rich  and  full,  sweet-toned  like  a  bell, 
and  all  resonant  of  youth. 

"Oh,  you  look  like  Durade  when  he  was  gambling 
away  his  soul.  .  .  .  You  should  see  him !" 

"Well,  how's  that?" 

"So  white — so  terrible — so  piercing!" 

Neale  drew  her  closer,  slipped  her  arms  farther  up 
round  his  neck.  "I'm  gambling  my  soul  away  now,"  he 
said.  "If  I  kiss  you  I  lose  it — and  I  must!" 

"Must  what  ?"  she  whispered,  with  all  a  woman's  charm. 

"I  must  kiss  you !" 

"Then  hurry!" 

So  their  lips  met. 

In  the  sweetness  of  that  embrace,  in  the  simplicity  and 
answering  passion  of  her  kiss,  in  the  overwhelming  sense 
of  her  gift  of  herself,  heart  and  soul,  he  found  a 
strength,  a  restraint,  a  nobler  fire  that  gave  him  peace. 

Allie  was  to  amaze  Neale  again  before  the  sun  set  on 
that  memorable  day. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  the  gold !"  she  exclaimed, 
her  face  paling. 

"Gold!"  ejaculated  Neale. 

"Yes.  He  buried  it — there — under  the  biggest  of  the 
three  trees  together.  Near  a  rock!  Oh,  I  can  see  him 
now!" 

"Him!    Who?    Allie,  what's  this  wild  talk?" 

She  pressed  his  hand  to  enjoin  silence. 

"Listen !  Horn  had  gold.  How  much  I  don't  know.  But 
it  must  have  been  a  great  deal.  He  owned  the  caravan 
with  which  we  left  California.  Horn  grew  to  like  me. 
But  he  hated  all  the  rest.  .  .  .  That  night  we  ended  the 
awful  ride !  The  wagons  stalled !  .  .  .  The  grayness  of 
dawn — the  stillness — oh,  I  feel  them  now!  .  .  .  That 

90 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

terrible  Indian  yell  rang  out.  All  my  life  I'll  hear  it!  .  .  . 
Then  Horn  dug  a  hole.  He  buried  his  gold.  .  .  .  And  he 
said  whoever  escaped  could  have  it.  He  had  no  hope." 

"Allie,  you're  a  mine  of  surprises.  Buried  gold!  What 
next?" 

"Neale,  I  wonder — did  the  Sioux  find  that  gold?"  she 
asked. 

"It's  not  likely.  There  certainly  wasn't  any  hole  left 
open  around  that  place.  I  saw  every  inch  of  ground 
under  those  trees.  .  .  .  Allie,  I'll  go  there  to-morrow  and 
hunt  for  it." 

"Let  me  go,"  she  implored.  "Ah!  I  forgot!  No — no! 
.  .  .  There  must  be  my  mother's  grave." 

"  Yes,  it's  there.  I  saw.  I  will  mark  it.  .  .  .  Allie,  how 
glad  I  am  that  you  can  speak  of  her — of  her  past — her 
grave  there  without  weakening.  You  are  brave!  But 
forget.  .  .  .  Allie,  if  I  find  that  gold  it  '11  be  yours." 

"No.    Yours." 

"But  I  wasn't  one  of  the  caravan.  He  did  not  give  it  to 
any  outsider.  You  escaped.  Therefore  it  will  belong  to 
you." 

"Dearest,  I  am  yours." 

Next  day,  without  acquainting  Slingerland  or  Larry  with 
his  purpose,  Neale  rode  down  the  valley  trail. 

He  expected  the  road  to  cross  the  old  St.  Vrain  and 
Laramie  Trail,  but  if  it  did  cross  he  could  not  find  the 
place.  It  was  easy  to  lose  bearings  in  these  hills.  Neale 
had  to  abandon  the  hunt  for  that  day,  and,  turning  back, 
with  some  annoyance  at  his  failure,  he  decided  that  it  would 
be  best  to  take  Larry  and  Slingerland  into  his  confidence. 

Allie  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  brook  ford. 

"Oh,  it  was  gone!"  she  cried. 

"Allie,  I  couldn't  find  the  place.  Come,  ride  back  and 
let  me  walk  beside  you.  .  .  .  We'll  have  fun  telling  Larry 
and  Slingerland." 

"Neale,  let  me  tell  them,"  she  begged. 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Go  ahead.  Make  a  strong  story.  Larry  always  had 
leanings  toward  gold-strikes." 

And  that  night,  after  supper,  when  the  log  fire  had 
begun  to  blaze,  and  all  were  comfortable  before  it,  Allie 
glanced  demurely  at  Larry  and  said: 

"Reddy,  if  you  had  known  that  I  was  heiress  to  great 
wealth,  would  you  have  proposed  to  me?" 

Slingerland  roared.    Larry  seemed  utterly  stricken. 

"Wealth!"  he  echoed,  feebly. 

"Yes.    Gold!    Lots  of  gold!" 

Slingerland's  merry  face  suddenly  grew  curious  and 
earnest. 

Larry  struggled  with  his  discomfiture. 

"I  reckon  I'd  done  thet  anyhow — without  knowin'  you 
was  rich — if  it  hadn't  been  fer  this  heah  U.  P.  surveyor 
fellar." 

And  then  the  joke  was  on  Allie,  as  her  blushes  proved. 
Neale  came  to  her  rescue  and  told  the  story  of  Horn's 
buried  gold,  and  of  his  own  search  that  day  for  the  place. 

"Shore  I'll  find  it,"  declared  Larry.  "We'll  go  to 
morrow.  .  .  . " 

Slingerland  stroked  his  beard  thoughtfully. 

"If  thar's  gold  been  buried  thar  it's  sure  an'  certain  thar 
yet,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  afraid  we  won't  git  thar  to 
morrow." 

' '  Why  not  ?    Surely  you  or  Larry  can  find  the  place  ?" 

"Listen." 

Neale  listened  while  he  was  watching  Allie's  parted  lips 
and  speaking  eyes.  A  low,  whining  wind  swept  through 
the  trees  and  over  the  roof  of  the  cabin. 

"Thet  wind  says  snow,"  declared  the  trapper. 

Neale  went  outside.  The  wind  struck  him  cold  and  keen, 
with  a  sharp  edge  to  it.  The  stars  showed  pale  and  dim 
through  hazy  atmosphere.  Assuredly  there  was  a  storm 
brewing.  Neale  returned  to  the  fire,  shivering  and  holding 
his  palms  to  the  heat. 

"Cold,  you  bet,  with  the  wind  rising,"  he  said.  "But 

92 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Slingerland,  suppose  it  does  snow.  Can't  we  go,  any 
how?" 

"It  ain't  likely.  You  see,  it  snows  up  hyar.  Mebbe 
we'll  be  snowed  in  fer  a  spell.  An'  thet  valley  is  open  down 
thar.  In  deep  snow  what  could  we  find  ?  We'll  wait  an'  see  ?" 

On  the  morrow  a  storm  raged  and  all  was  dim  through 
a  ghostly,  whirling  pall.  The  season  of  drifting  snow  had 
come,  and  Neale's  winter  work  had  begun. 

Five  miles  by  short  cut  over  the  ridges  curved  the  long 
survey  over  which  Neale  must  keep  watch;  and  the  going 
and  coming  were  Neale's  hardest  toil.  It  was  laborsoxne 
to  trudge  up  and  down  in  soft  snow. 

That  first  snow  of  winter,  however,  did  not  last  long, 
except  in  the  sheltered  places.  Fortunately  for  Neale,  al 
most  all  of  his  section  of  the  survey  ran  over  open  ground. 
But  this  fact  augured  seriously  for  his  task  when  the  dry 
and  powdery  snow  of  midwinter  began  to  fall  and  sweep 
before  the  wind  and  drift  over  the  lee  side  of  the  ridge. 

During  the  first  week  of  tramping  he  thoroughly  learned 
the  lay  of  the  land,  the  topography  of  his  particular  stretch 
of  Sherman  Pass.  And  one  day,  taking  an  early  start  from 
camp,  he  set  forth  to  make  his  first  call  upon  his  nearest 
associate  in  this  work,  the  engineer  Service.  Once  high 
up  on  the  pass  he  found  the  snow  had  not  all  melted,  and 
still  higher  it  lay  white  and  unbroken  as  far  as  he  could 
see.  The  air  was  keener  up  there.  Neale  gathered  that 
Service  would  have  a  colder  job  than  his  own,  if  it  was  not 
so  long  and  hard. 

He  found  Service  at  home  in  his  dugout,  warm  and 
comfortable  and  in  excellent  spirits.  They  compared 
notes,  and  even  in  this  early  work  they  decided  it  would 
be  a  wise  plan  for  the  engineering  staff  to  study  the  problem 
of  drifting  snow. 

Neale  enjoyed  a  meal  with  Service,  and  then,  early  in 
the  afternoon,  he  started  back  on  his  long  tramp  homeward. 
He  gathered  from  his  visit  that  Service  did  not  mind  the 

93 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

fonesomeness,  but  that  he  did  suffer  from  the  cold  more 
than  he  had  expected.  Service  was  not  an  active,  full- 
blooded  man,  and  Neale  had  some  misgivings.  Judging 
from  the  trapper's  remarks,  winter  high  up  in  the  Wyoming 
hills  was  something  to  dread. 

November  brought  the  real  storms — the  gray  banks  of 
Tolling  cloud,  the  rain  and  sleet  and  snow  and  ice,  and  the 
wind.  Neale  concluded  he  had  never  before  faced  a  real 
wind,  and  when,  one  day  on  a  ridge-top,  he  was  blown  off 
his  feet  he  was  sure  of  it.  Some  days  he  could  not  go  out 
at  all.  Other  days  it  was  not  imperative,  for  it  was  only 
during  and  after  snow-storms  that  he  could  make  obser 
vations.  He  learned  to  travel  on  snow-shoes,  and  ten 
miles  of  such  traveling  up  and  down  the  steep  slopes  was 
the  most  killing  hard  toil  he  had  ever  attempted.  After 
such  trips  he  would  reach  the  cabin  utterly  fagged  out, 
too  tired  to  eat,  too  weary  to  talk,  almost  too  dead  to 
hear  the  solicitations  of  his  friends  or  to  appreciate  Allie's 
tender,  anxious  care.  If  he  had  not  been  strong  and  robust 
and  in  good  training  to  begin  with,  he  would  have  failed 
under  the  burden.  Gradually  he  grew  used  to  the  strenu 
ous  toil,  and  became  hardened,  tough,  and  enduring. 

Though  Neale  hated  the  cold  and  the  wind,  there  were 
moments  when  an  exceedingly  keen  exhilaration  uplifted 
him.  These  experiences  visited  him  while  on  the  heights, 
looking  far  over  the  snowy  ridges  to  the  white,  monotonous 
plain  or  up  toward  the  shining  peaks.  All  seemed  barren 
and  cold.  He  never  saw  a  living  creature  or  a  track  upon 
those  slopes.  When  the  sun  shone  all  was  so  dazzlingly, 
glaringly  white  that  his  eyes  were  struck  by  temporary 
blindness. 

Upon  one  of  the  milder  days,  which  were  getting  rarer 
in  mid-December,  Neale  again  visited  his  comrade  on  the 
summit.  He  found  Service  in  bad  shape.  In  falling  down 
a  slippery  ledge  he  had  injured  or  broken  his  lame  leg. 
Neale,  with  great  concern,  tried  to  ascertain  the  nature  and 
extent  of  the  harm  done,  but  he  was  unable  to  do  so, 

94 


THE   U.   P.  TRAIL 

Service  was  practically  helpless,  although  not  suffering 
,ny  great  pain.  The  two  of  them  decided,  at  length,  that 
he  had  not  broken  any  bones,  but  that  it  was  necessary 
to  move  him  to  where  he  could  be  waited  upon  and  treated, 
or  else  some  one  must  be  brought  in  to  take  care  of  him,, 
Neale  deliberated  a  moment. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  finally.  "You  can  be 
moved  down  to  Slingerland's  cabin  without  pain  to  you. 
I'll  get  Slingerland  and  his  sled.  You'll  be  more  comfort 
able  there.  It  '11  be  better  all  around." 

So  that  was  decided  upon.  And  Neale,  after  doing  all 
he  could  for  Service,  and  assuring  him  that  he  would  return 
in  less  than  twenty-four  hours,  turned  his  steps  for  the 
valley. 

The  sunset  that  night  struck  him  as  singularly  dull, 
pale,  menacing.  He  understood  its  meaning  later,  when 
Slingerland  said  they  were  in  for  another  storm.  Before 
dark  the  wind  began  to  moan  through  the  trees  like  lost 
spirits.  The  trapper  shook  his  shaggy  head  ominously. 

"Reckon  thet  sounds  bad  to  me,"  he  said.  And  from 
moan  it  rose  to  wail,  and  from  wail  to  roar. 

That  alarmed  Neale.  He  went  outside  and  Slingerland 
followed.  Snow  was  sweeping  down — light,  dry,  powdery. 
The  wind  was  piercingly  cold.  Slingerland  yelled  some 
thing,  but  Neale  could  not  distinguish  what.  When  they 
got  back  inside  the  trapper  said: 

"Blizzard!" 

Neale  grew  distressed. 

"Wai,  no  use  to  worry  about  Service,"  argued  the  trap 
per.  "If  it  is  a  blizzard  we  can't  git  up  thar,  thet's  all. 
Mebbe  this  '11  not  be  so  bad.  But  I  ain't  bettin'  on  thet." 

Even  Allie  couldn't  cheer  Neale  that  night.  Long  after 
she  and  the  others  had  retired  he  kept  up  the  fire  and 
listened  to  the  roar  of  the  wind.  When  the  fire  died  down 
a  little  the  cabin  grew  uncomfortably  cold,  and  this  fact 
attested  to  a  continually  dropping  temperature.  But  he 
hoped  against  hope  and  finally  sought  his  blankets. 

95 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

Morning  came,  but  the  cabin  was  almost  as  dark  as  by 
night.  A  blinding,  swirling  snow-storm  obscured  the  sun. 

A  blizzard  raged  for  forty-eight  hours.  When  the  snow 
finally  ceased  falling  the  cold  increased  until  Neale  guessed 
the  temperature  might  be  forty  degrees  below  zero.  The 
trapper  claimed  sixty.  It  was  necessary  to  stay  indoors 
till  the  weather  moderated. 

On  the  fifth  morning  Slingerland  was  persuaded  to  at 
tempt  the  trip  to  aid  Service.  Larry  wanted  to  accompany 
them,  but  Slingerland  said  he  had  better  stay  with  Allie. 
So,  muffled  up,  the  two  men  set  out  on  snow-shoes,  drag 
ging  a  sled.  A  crust  had  frozen  on  the  snow,  otherwise 
traveling  would  have  been  impossible.  Once  up  on  the 
slope  the  north  wind  hit  them  square  in  the  face.  Heavily 
clad  as  he  was,  Neale  thought  the  very  marrow  in  his 
bones  would  freeze.  That  wind  blew  straight  through 
him.  There  were  places  where  it  took  both  men  to  hold 
the  sled  to  keep  it  from  getting  away.  They  were  blown 
back  one  step  for  every  two  steps  they  made.  On  the 
exposed  heights  they  could  not  walk  upright.  At  last, 
after  hours  of  desperate  effort,  they  got  over  the  ridge  to 
a  sheltered  side  along  which  they  labored  up  to  Service's 
dugout. 

Up  there  the  snow  had  blown  away  in  places,  leaving  bare 
spots,  bleak,  icy,  barren,  stark.  No  smoke  appeared  to 
rise  above  the  dugout.  The  rude  habitation  looked  as 
though  no  man  had  been  there  that  winter.  Neale  glanced 
in  swift  dismay  at  Slingerland. 

"Son,  look  fer  the  wust,"  he  said.  "An*  we  hain't  got 
time  to  waste." 

They  pushed  open  the  canvas  framework  of  a  door 
and,  stooping  low,  passed  inside.  Neale's  glance  saw  first 
the  fireplace,  where  no  fire  had  burned  for  days.  Snow 
had  sifted  into  the  dugout  and  lay  in  little  drifts  every 
where.  The  blankets  on  the  bunk  covered  Service,  hiding 
his  face.  Both  men  knew  before  they  uncovered  him  what 
his  fate  had  been. 

96 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Frozen  to  death!"  gasped  Neale. 

Service  lay  white,  rigid,  like  stone,  with  no  sign  of  suf 
fering  upon  his  face. 

"He  jest  went  to  sleep — an*  never  woke  up,"  declared 
Slingerland. 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  exclaimed  Neale.  "Oh,  why 
did  I  not  stay  with  him!" 

"Too  late,  son.  An'  many  a  good  man  will  go  to  his 
death  before  thet  damn  railroad  is  done." 

Neale  searched  for  Service's  notes  and  letters  and  valu 
ables  which  could  be  turned  over  to  the  engineering  staff. 

Slingerland  found  a  pick  and  shovel,  which  Neale  remem 
bered  to  have  used  in  building  the  dugout ;  and  with  these 
the  two  men  toiled  at  the  frozen  sand  and  gravel  to  open 
up  a  grave.  It  was  like  digging  in  stone.  At  length  they 
succeeded.  Then,  rolling  Service  in  the  blankets  and  tar 
paulin,  they  lowered  him  into  the  cold  ground  and  hurriedly 
filled  up  his  grave. 

It  was  a  grim,  gruesome  task.  Another  nameless  grave! 
Neale  had  already  seen  nine  graves.  This  one  was  up  the 
slope  not  a  hundred  feet  from  the  line  of  the  survey. 

"Slingerland,"  exclaimed  Neale,  "the  railroad  will  run 
along  there !  Trains  will  pass  this  spot.  In  years  to  come 
travelers  will  look  out  of  the  train  windows  along  here. 
Boys  riding  away  to  seek  their  fortunes !  Bride  and  groom 
on  their  honeymoon!  Thousands  of  people — going, 
coming,  busy,  happy  at  their  own  affairs,  full  of  their  own 
lives — will  pass  by  poor  Service's  grave  and  never  know 
it's  there!" 

"Wai,  son,  if  people  must  hev  railroads,  they  must  kill 
men  to  build  them,"  replied  the  trapper. 

Neale  conceived  the  idea  that  Slingerland  did  not  wel 
come  the  coming  of  the  steel  rails.  The  thought  shocked 
him.  But  then,  he  reflected,  a  trapper  would  not  profit 
by  the  advance  of  civilization. 

With  the  wind  in  their  backs  Neale  and  Slingerland  were 
practically  blown  home.  They  made  it  up  between  them 

97 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  keep  knowledge  of  the  tragedy  from  Allie.  So  ended 
the  coldest  and  hardest  and  grimmest  day  Neale  had  ever 
known. 

The  winter  passed,  the  snows  melted,  the  winds  quieted, 
and  spring  came. 

Long  since  Neale  had  decided  to  leave  Allie  with  Slinger- 
land  that  summer.  She  would  be  happy  there,  and  she 
wished  to  stay  until  Neale  could  take  her  with  him.  That 
seemed  out  of  the  question  for  the  present.  A  construc 
tion  camp  full  of  troopers  and  laborers  was  no  place  for 
Allie.  Neale  dreaded  the  idea  of  taking  her  to  Omaha. 
Always  in  his  mind  were  haunting  fears  of  this  Spaniard, 
Durade,  who  had  ruined  Allie's  mother,  and  of  the  father 
whom  Allie  had  never  seen.  Neale  instinctively  felt  that 
these  men  were  to  crop  up  somewhere  in  his  life,  and 
before  they  did  appear  he  wanted  to  marry  Allie.  She 
was  now  little  more  than  sixteen  years  old. 

Neale's  plans  for  the  summer  could  not  be  wholly  known 
until  he  had  reported  to  the  general  staff,  which  might  be 
at  Fort  Fetterman  or  North  Platte  or  all  the  way  back  in 
Omaha.  But  it  was  probable  that  he  would  be  set  to 
work  with  the  advancing  troops  and  trains  and  laborers. 
Engineers  had  to  accompany  both  the  grading  gangs  and 
the  rail  gangs. 

Neale,  in  his  talks  with  Larry  and  Slingerland,  had  dwelt 
long  and  conjecturingly  upon  what  life  was  going  to  be 
in  the  construction  camps. 

To  Larry  what  might  happen  was  of  little  moment.  He 
lived  in  the  present.  But  Neale  was  different.  He  had  to 
be  anticipating  events;  he  lived  in  the  future;  his  mind 
was  centered  on  future  work,  achievement,  and  what  he 
might  go  through  in  attaining  his  end.  Slingerland  was 
his  appreciative  listener. 

"Wai,"  he  would  say,  shaking  his  grizzled  head,  "I 
reckon  I  don't  believe  all  your  General  Lodge  says  is  goin' 
to  happen." 

"But,  man,  can't  you  imagine  what  it  will  be?"  protested 

98 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale.  "Take  thousands  of  soldiers — the  riffraff  of  the 
war — and  thousands  of  laborers  of  all  classes,  niggers, 
greasers,  pigtailed  chinks,  and  Irish.  Take  thousands  of 
men  who  want  to  earn  an  honest  dollar  in  trade,  following 
the  line.  And  thousands  who  want  dollars,  but  not  honestly. 
All  the  gamblers,  outlaws,  robbers,  murderers,  criminals, 
adventurers  in  the  States,  and  perhaps  many  from  abroad, 
will  be  on  the  trail.  Think,  man,  of  the  money — the  gold! 
Millions  spilled  out  in  these  wilds!  .  .  .  And  last  and 
worst — the  bad  women!" 

Slingerland  showed  his  amazement  at  the  pictures  drawn 
by  Neale,  especially  at  the  final  one. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  thet's  all  guff  too,"  he  said.  "A  lot  of 
bad  women  out  in  these  wilds  ain't  to  be  feared.  Sup- 
posin'  thar  was  a  lot  of  them — which  ain't  likely — how'd 
they  ever  git  out  to  the  camps?" 

"Slingerland,  the  trains — the  trains  will  follow  the  lay 
ing  of  the  rails!" 

"Oho!  An'  you  mean  thar '11  be  towns  grow  up  over 
night — all  full  of  bad  people  who  ain't  workin'  on  the  rail 
road,  but  jest  followin'  the  gold?" 

"Exactly.  Now  listen.  Remember  all  these  mixed 
gangs — the  gold — and  the  bad  women — out  here  in  the 
wild  country — no  law — no  restraint — no  fear,  except  of  death 
• — drinking-hells — gambling-hells — dancing-hells !  What's 
going  to  happen?" 

The  trapper  meditated  awhile,  stroking  his  beard,  and 
then  he  said:  "Wai,  thar  ain't  enough  gold  to  build  thet 
railroad — an'  if  thar  was  it  couldn't  never  be  done!" 

"Ah!"  cried  Neale,  raising  his  head  sharply.  "It's  a 
matter  of  gold  first.  Streams  of  gold!  And  then — can  it 
be  done?" 

One  day,  as  the  time  for  Neale's  departure  grew  closer, 
Slingerland's  quiet  and  peaceful  valley  was  violated  by  a 
visit  from  four  rough-looking  men. 

They  rode  in  without  packs.  It  was  significant  to  Neale 

99 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

that  Larry  swore  at  sight  of  them,  and  then  in  his  cool, 
easy  way  sauntered  between  them  and  the  cabin  door,  where 
Allie  stood  with  astonishment  fixed  on  her  beautiful  face. 
The  Texan  always  packed  his  heavy  gun,  and  certainly  no 
Western  men  would  mistake  his  quality.  These  visitors 
were  civil  enough,  asked  for  a  little  tobacco,  and  showed  no 
sign  of  evil  intent. 

"Way  off  the  beaten  track  up  hyar,"  said  one. 

"Yes.  I'm  a  trapper,"  replied  Slingerland.  "Whar  do 
you  hail  from?" 

"Ogden.    We're  packin'  east." 

"Much  travel  on  the  trail?" 

"Right  smart  fer  wild  country.  An'  all  goin'  east.  We 
hain't  met  an  outfit  headin'  west.  Hev  you  heerd  any  talk 
of  a  railroad  buildin'  out  of  Omaha?" 

Here  Larry  put  a  word  in. 

"Shore.  We've  had  soldiers  campin'  around  aboot  all 
heah." 

"Soldiers!"  ejaculated  one  of  the  gang. 

"Shore,  the  road's  bein'  built  by  soldiers." 

The  men  made  no  further  comment  and  turned  away 
without  any  good-bys.  Slingerland  called  out  to  them 
to  have  an  eye  open  for  Indians  on  the  war-path. 

"Wai,  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  them  fellars,"  he  declared. 

Neale  likewise  took  an  unfavorable  view  of  the  visit, 
but  Larry  scouted  the  idea  of  there  being  any  danger  in  a 
gang  like  that. 

"Shore  they'd  be  afraid  of  a  man,"  he  declared. 

"Red,  can  you  look  at  men  and  tell  whether  or  not  there's 
danger  in  them?"  inquired  Neale. 

"I  shore  can.  One  man  could  bluff  thet  outfit.  .  .  .  But 
I  reckon  I'd  hate  to  have  them  find  Allie  aboot  heah 
alone." 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  spoke  up  Allie,  spiritedly. 

Neale  and  Slingerland,  for  all  their  respect  for  the  cow 
boy's  judgment,  regarded  the  advent  of  these  visitors  as  a 
forerunner  of  an  evil  time  for  lonely  trappers. 

100 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"I'll  hev  to  move  back  deeper  in  the  mountains,' away 
from  the  railroad,"  said  Slingerland. 

This  incident  also  put  a  different  light  upon  the  intention 
Neale  had  of  hunting  for  the  buried  gold.  Just  now  he 
certainly  did  not  want  to  risk  being  seen  digging  gold  or 
packing  it  away ;  and  Slingerland  was  just  as  loath  to  have 
it  concealed  in  or  near  his  cabin. 

"Wai,  seein'  we're  not  sure  it's  really  there,  let's  wait 
till  you  come  back  in  summer  or  fall,"  he  suggested.  "If 
it's  thar  it  '11  stay  thar." 

All  too  soon  the  dawn  came  for  Neale's  departure  witk 
Larry.  Allie  was  braver  than  he.  At  the  last  he  was 
white  and  shaken.  She  kissed  Larry. 

"Reddy,  you'll  take  care  of  yourself — and  him,"  she  said. 

"Allie,  I  shore  will.  Good-by."  Larry  rode  down  the 
trail  in  the  dim  gray  dawn. 

"Watch  sharp  for  Indians,"  she  breathed,  and  her  face 
Whitened  momentarily.  Then  the  color  returned.  Her 
eyes  welled  full  of  sweet,  soft  light. 

"Allie,  I  can't  go,"  said  Neale,  hoarsely.  The  clasp  of 
her  arms  unnerved  him. 

"You  must.  It's  your  work.  Remember  the  big  job! 
.  .  .  Dearest!  Dearest!  Hurry — and — go!" 

Neale  could  no  longer  see  her  face  clearly.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  was  saying. 

"You'll — always — love  me?"  he  implored. 

"Do  you  need  to  ask?    All  my  life!  .   .   .   I  promise." 

"Kiss  me,  then,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  blindly  leaning 
down.  "It's  hell — to  leave  you!  .  .  .  Wonderful  girl — 
treasure — precious — Allie!  .  .  .  Kiss  me — enough!  .  .  . 

T »» 

She  held  him  with  strong  and  passionate  clasp  and  kissed 
him  again  and  again. 

"Good-by!"  Her  last  word  was  low,  choked,  poignant, 
and  had  in  it  a  mournful  reminder  of  her  old  tragic  woe. 

Then  he  was  alone.  Mounting  clumsily,  with  blurred 
eyes,  he  rode  into  the  winding  trail. 

101 


CHAPTER  X 

NEALE  and  King  traveled  light,  without  pack-animals, 
and  at  sunrise  they  reached  the  main  trail. 

It  bore  evidence  of  considerable  use  and  was  no  longer  a 
trail,  but  a  highroad.  Fresh  tracks  of  horses  and  oxen, 
wagon-wheel  ruts,  dead  camp-fires,  and  scattered  brush 
that  had  been  used  for  wind-breaks — all  these  things 
attested  to  the  growing  impetus  of  that  movement;  soon 
it  was  to  become  extraordinary. 

All  this  was  Indian  country.  Neale  and  his  companion 
had  no  idea  whether  or  not  the  Sioux  had  left  their  winter 
quarters  for  the  war-path.  But  it  was  a  vast  region,  and 
the  Indians  could  not  be  everywhere.  Neale  and  King 
took  chances,  as  had  all  these  travelers,  though  perhaps 
the  risk  was  not  so  great,  because  they  rode  fleet  horses. 
They  discovered  no  signs  of  Indians,  and  it  appeared  as  if 
they  were  alone  in  a  wilderness. 

They  covered  sixty  miles  from  early  dawn  to  dark,  with  a 
short  rest  at  noon,  and  reached  Fort  Fetterman  safely 
without  incident  or  accident.  Troops  were  there,  but  none 
of  the  U.  P.  engineering  staff.  Neale  did  not  meet  any 
soldiers  with  whom  he  was  acquainted.  Orders  were  there 
for  him,  however,  to  report  to  North  Platte  as  soon  as  it 
was  possible  to  reach  there.  Troops  were  to  be  moving 
soon,  so  Neale  learned,  and  the  long  journey  could  be  made 
in  comparative  safety. 

Here  Neale  received  the  tidings  that  forty  miles  of  rail 
road  had  been  built  during  the  last  summer,  and  trains  had 
been  run  that  distance  west  from  Omaha.  His  heart 
swelled.  Not  for  many  a  week  had  he  heard  anything 

102 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

favorable  to  the  great  U.  P.  project,  and  here  was  news 
of  rails  laid,  trains  run.  Already  this  spring  the  graders 
were  breaking  ground  far  ahead  of  the  rail-layers.  Report 
and  rumor  at  the  fort  had  it  that  lively  times  had  attended 
the  construction.  But  the  one  absorbing  topic  was  the 
Sioux  Indians,  who  were  expected  to  swarm  out  of  the 
bills  that  summer  and  give  the  troops  hot  work. 

In  due  time  Neale  and  Larry  arrived  at  North  Platte, 
which  was  little  more  than  a  camp.  The  construction 
gangs  were  not  expected  to  reach  there  until  late  in  the 
fall.  Baxter  was  at  North  Platte,  with  a  lame  surveyor, 
and  no  other  helpers;  consequently  he  hailed  Neale  and 
Larry  with  open  arms.  A  summer's  work  on  the  hot 
monotonous  plains  stared  Neale  in  the  face,  but  he  must 
resign  himself  to  the  inevitable.  He  worked,  as  always, 
with  that  ability  and  energy  which  had  made  him  in 
valuable  to  his  superiors.  Here,  however,  the  labor  was  a 
dull,  hot  grind,  without  any  thrills.  Neale  filled  the  long 
days  with  duty  and  seldom  let  his  mind  wander.  In  leisure 
hours,  however,  he  dreamed  of  Allie  and  the  future.  He 
found  no  trouble  in  passing  time  that  way.  Also  he  watched 
eagerly  for  arrivals  from  the  west,  whom  he  questioned 
about  Indians  in  the  Wyoming  hills;  and  from  troops  or 
travelers  coming  from  the  east  he  heard  all  the  news  of  the 
advancing  railroad  construction.  It  was  absorbingly  in 
teresting,  yet  Neale  could  credit  so  few  of  the  tales. 

The  summer  and  early  fall  passed. 

Neale  was  ordered  to  Omaha.  The  news  stunned  him. 
He  had  builded  all  his  hopes  on  another  winter  out  in  the 
Wyoming  hills,  and  this  disappointment  was  crushing.  It 
made  him  ill  for  a  day.  He  almost  threw  up  his  work.  It 
did  not  seem  possible  to  live  that  interminable  stretch 
without  seeing  All?e  Lee.  The  nature  of  his  commission, 
however,  brought  once  again  to  mind  the  opportunity  that 
knocked  at  his  door.  Neale  had  run  all  the  different  surveys 
lor  bridges  in  the  Wyoming  hills  and  now  he  was  needed  in 

103 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  office  of  the  staff,  where  plans  and  drawings  were  being 
made.  Again  he  bowed  to  the  inevitable.  But  he  deter 
mined  to  demand  in  the  spring  that  he  be  sent  ahead  to  the 
forefront  of  the  construction  work. 

Another  disappointment  seemed  in  order.  Larry  King 
refused  to  go  any  farther  back  east.  Neale  was  exceed 
ingly  surprised. 

"Do  you  throw  up  your  job?"  he  asked. 

"Shore  not.     I  can  work  heah,"  replied  Larry. 

"There  won't  be  any  outside  work  on  these  bleak  plains 
in  winter." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I'll  loaf,  then,"  he  drawled. 

Neale  could  not  change  him.  Larry  vowed  he  would 
take  his  old  place  with  Neale  next  spring,  if  it  should  be 
open  to  him. 

"But  why?    Red,  I  can't  figure  you,"  protested  Neale. 

"Pard,  I  reckon  I'm  fur  enough  back  east  right 
heah,"  said  Larry,  significantly. 

A  light  dawned  upon  Neale.  "Red!  You've  done 
something  bad!"  exclaimed  Neale,  in  genuine  dismay. 

"Wai,  I  don't  know  jest  how  bad  it  was,  but  it  shore 
was  hell,"  replied  Larry,  with  a  grin. 

"Red,  you  aren't  afraid,"  asserted  Neale,  positively. 

The  cowboy  flushed  and  looked  insulted.  "If  any  one 
but  you  said  thet  to  me  he'd  hev  to  eat  it." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  old  man.  But  I'm  surprised.  It 
doesn't  seem  like  you.  .  .  .  And  then — Lord!  I'll  miss 
you." 

"No  more  'n  I'll  miss  you,  pard,"  replied  Larry. 

Suddenly  Neale  had  a  happy  thought.  "Red,  you  go 
back  to  Slingerland's  and  help  take  care  of  Allie.  I'd 
feel  she  was  safer." 

"Wai,  she  might  be  safer,  but  I  wouldn't  be,"  declared 
the  cowboy,  bluntly. 

' '  You  red-head !    What  do  you  mean  ?"  demanded  Neale. 

"I  mean  this  heah.  If  I  stayed  around  another  wintef 
near  Allie  Lee — with  her  alone,  fer  thet  trapper  never  set 

104 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

up  before  thet  fire — I'd — why,  Neale,  I'd  ambush  yot* 
like  an  Injun  when  you  come  back!" 

"You  wouldn't,"  rejoined  Neale.  He  wanted  to  laugh, 
but  had  no  mirth. 

Larry  did  not  mean  that,  but  neither  did  he  mean  to 
be  funny.  "I'll  be  hangin'  round  heah,  waitin'  fer  you. 
It's  only  a  few  months.  Go  on  to  your  work,  pard.  You'll 
be  a  big  man  on  the  road  some  day." 

Neale  left  North  Platte  with  a  wagon-train. 

After  a  long,  slow  journey  the  point  was  reached  where 
the  graders  had  left  off  work  for  that  year.  Here  had 
been  a  huge  construction  camp;  and  the  bare  and  squalid 
place  looked  as  if  it  once  had  been  a  town  of  crudest  make, 
suddenly  wrecked  by  a  cyclone  and  burned  by  prairie 
fire.  Fifty  miles  farther  on,  representing  two  more  long, 
tedious,  and  unendurable  days,  and  Neale  heard  the 
whistle  of,  a  locomotive.  It  came  from  far  off.  But  it 
was  a  whistle.  He  yelled,  and  the  men  journeying  with 
him  joined  in. 

Smoke  showed  on  the  horizon,  together  with  a  wide,  low, 
uneven  line  of  shacks  and  tents. 

Neale  was  all  eyes  when  he  rode  into  that  construction 
camp.  The  place  was  a  bedlam.  A  motley  horde  of 
men  appeared  to  be  doing  everything  under  the  sun  but 
work,  and  most  of  them  seemed  particularly  eager  to 
board  a  long  train  of  box-cars  and  little  old  passenger- 
coaches.  Neale  made  a  dive  for  the  train,  and  his  so 
journ  in  that  camp  was  a  short  and  exciting  one  of  ten 
minutes. 

He  felt  unutterably  proud.  He  had  helped  survey  the 
line  along  which  the  train  was  now  rattling  and  creaking 
and  swaying.  All  that  swiftly  passed  under  his  keen  eyes 
was  recorded  in  his  memory — the  uncouth  crowd  of  la 
borers,  the  hardest  lot  he  had  ever  seen;  the  talk,  noise, 
smoke;  the  rickety  old  clattering  coaches;  the  wayside 
dumps  and  heaps  and  wreckage.  But  they  all  seemed 

8  105 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

parts  of  a  beautiful  romance  to  him.     Neale  saw  through 
the  eyes  of  golden  ambition  and  illimitable  dreams. 

And  not  for  a  moment  of  that  endless  ride,  with  inter 
minable  stops,  did  he  weary  of  the  two  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  of  rails  laid  that  year,  and  of  the  forty  miles  of  the 
preceding  year.  Then  came  Omaha,  a  beehive — the  mak 
ing  of  a  Western  metropolis! 

Neale  plunged  into  the  bewildering  turmoil  of  plans, 
tasks,  schemes,  land-grants,  politics,  charters,  inducements, 
liens  and  loans,  Government  and  army  and  State  and 
national  interests,  grafts  and  deals  and  bosses — all  that 
mass  of  selfish  and  unselfish  motives,  all  that  wealth  of 
cunning  and  noble  aims,  all  that  congested  assemblage 
of  humanity  which  went  to  make  up  the  building  of  the 
Union  Pacific. 

Neale  was  a  dreamer,  like  the  few  men  whose  minds  had 
first  given  birth  to  the  wonderful  idea  of  a  railroad  from 
East  to  West.  Neale  found  himself  confronted  by  a  sin 
gularly  disturbing  fact.  However  grand  this  project,  its 
political  and  mercenary  features  could  not  be  beautiful 
to  him.  Why  could  not  all  men  be  right-minded  about  a 
noble  cause  and  work  unselfishly  for  the  development  of 
the  West  and  the  future  generations?  It  was  a  melan 
choly  thing  to  learn  that  men  of  sincere  and  generous 
purpose  had  spent  their  all  trying  to  raise  the  money  to 
build  the  Union  Pacific;  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  satis 
faction  to  hear  that  many  capitalists  with  greedy  claws 
had  ruined  themselves  in  like  efforts. 

The  President  of  the  United  States  and  Congress  had 
their  own  troubles  at  the  close  of  the  war,  and  the  Govern 
ment  could  do  but  little  money-raising  with  land-grants  and 
loans.  But  they  offered  a  great  bonus  to  the  men  who  would 
build  the  railroad. 

The  first  construction  company  subscribed  over  a  million 
and  a  half  dollars,  and  paid  in  one-quarter  of  that.  The 
money  went  so  swiftly  that  it  opened  the  company's  eyes 

106 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  the  insatiable  gulf  beneath  that  enterprise,  and  they 
quit. 

Thereupon  what  was  called  the  Credit  Mobilier  was 
inaugurated,  and  it  became  both  famous  and  infamous. 

It  was  a  type  of  the  construction  company  by  which 
it  was  the  custom  to  build  railroads  at  that  time.  The 
directors,  believing  that  whatever  money  was  to  be  made 
out  of  the  Union  Pacific  must  be  collected  during  the  con 
struction  period,  organized  a  clever  system  for  just  this 
purpose. 

An  extravagant  sum  was  to  be  paid  to  the  Credit  Mo 
bilier  for  the  construction  work,  thus  securing  for  stock 
holders  of  the  Union  Pacific,  who  now  controlled  the  Credit 
Mobilier,  the  bonds  loaned  by  the  United  States  Govern 
ment. 

The  operations  of  the  Credit  Mobilier  finally  gave  rise 
to  one  of  the  most  serious  political  scandals  in  the  history 
of  the  United  States  Congress. 

The  cost  of  all  material  was  high,  and  it  rose  with  leaps 
and  bounds  until  it  was  prodigious.  Omaha  had  no  rail 
road  entering  it  from  the  east,  and  so  all  the  supplies, 
materials,  engines,  cars,  machinery,  and  laborers  had  to 
be  transported  from  St.  Louis  up  the  swift  Missouri  on 
boats.  This  in  itself  was  a  work  calling  for  the  limit  of 
practical  management  and  energy.  Out  on  the  prairie- 
land,  for  hundreds  of  miles,  were  to  be  found  no  trees, 
no  wood,  scarcely  any  brush.  The  prairie-land  was  beau 
tiful  ground  for  buffalo,  but  it  was  a  most  barren  desert 
for  the  exigencies  of  railroad  men.  Moreover,  not  only 
Hd  wood  and  fuel  and  railroad-ties  have  to  be  brought 
from  afar,  but  also  stone  for  bridges  and  abutments. 
Then  thousands  of  men  had  to  be  employed,  and  those 
who  hired  out  for  reasonable  money  soon  learned  that 
others  were  getting  more;  having  the  company  at  their 
mercy,  they  demanded  exorbitant  wages  in  their  turn. 

One  of  the  peculiar  features  of  the  construction,  a  feature 
over  which  Neale  grew  impotently  furious,  was  the  law 

107 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

that  when  a  certain  section  of  so  many  miles  had  been 
laid  and  equipped  the  Government  of  the  United  States 
would  -send  out  expert  commissioners,  who  would  go  over 
the  Jine  and  pass  judgment  upon  the  finished  work.  No 
two  groups  of  commissioners  seemed  to  agree.  These 
experts,  who  had  their  part  to  play  in  the  bewildering  and 
labyrinthine  maze  of  men's  contrary  plans  and  plots,  re 
ported  that  certain  sections  would  have  to  be  done  over 
again. 

The  particular  fault  found  with  one  of  these  sections 
was  the  alleged  steepness  of  the  grade,  and  as  Neale  had 
been  the  surveyor  in  charge,  he  soon  heard  of  his  poor 
work.  He  went  over  his  figures  and  notes  with  the  result 
that  he  called  on  Henney  and  absolutely  swore  that  the 
grade  was  right.  Henney  swore  too,  in  a  different  and  more 
forcible  way,  but  he  agreed  with  Neale  and  advised  him  to 
call  upon  the  expert  commissioners. 

Neale  did  so,  and  found  them,  with  one  exception,  open 
to  conviction.  The  exception  was  a  man  named  Allison 
Lee.  The  name  Lee  gave  Neale  a  little  shock.  He  was  a 
gray-looking  man,  with  lined  face,  and  that  concentrated 
air  which  Neale  had  learned  to  associate  with  those  who 
were  high  in  the  affairs  of  the  U.  P. 

Neale  stated  that  his  business  was  to  show  that  his 
work  had  been  done  right,  and  he  had  the  figures  to  prove 
it.  Mr.  Lee  replied  that  the  survey  was  poor  and  would 
have  to  be  done  over. 

"Are  you  a  surveyor?"  queried  Neale,  sharply,  with  the 
blood  beating  in  his  temples. 

"I  have  some  knowledge  of  civil  engineering/'  replied 
the  commissioner. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  very  much,"  declared  Neale,  whose 
temper  was  up. 

"Young  man,  be  careful  what  you  say,"  replied  the 
other. 

"But  Mr. — Mr.  Lee — listen  to  me,  will  you?"  burst  out 
Neale.  "It's  all  here  in  my  notes.  You've  hurried  over 

108 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

the  line  and  you  just  slipped  up  a  foot  or  so  in  your  obser 
vations  of  that  section." 

Mr.  Lee  refused  to  look  at  the  notes  and  waved  Neale  aside. 

"It  '11  hurt  my  chances  for  a  big  job,"  Neale  said,  stub 
bornly. 

"You  probably  will  lose  your  job,  judging  from  the  way 
you  address  your  superiors." 

That  finished  Neale.    He  grew  perfectly  white. 

"All  this  expert-commissioner  business  is  rot,"  he  flung 
at  Lee.  "Rot!  Lodge  knows  it.  Henney  knows  it.  We 
all  do.  And  so  do  you.  It's  a  lot  of  damn  red  tape !  Every 
last  man  who  can  pull  a  stroke  with  the  Government  runs 
in  here  to  annoy  good  efficient  engineers  who  are  building 
the  road.  It's  an  outrage.  It's  more.  It's  not  honest. 
.  .  .  That  section  has  forty  miles  in  it.  Five  miles  you 
claim  must  be  resurveyed — regraded — relaid.  Forty-si* 
thousand  dollars  a  mile!  .  .  .  That's  the  secret — two 
hundred  and  thirty  thousand  dollars  more  for  a  construc 
tion  company!" 

Neale  left  the  office  and,  returning  to  Henney,  repeated 
the  interview  to  him  word  for  word.  Henney  complimented 
Neale's  spirit,  but  deplored  the  incident.  It  could  do  no 
good  and  might  do  harm.  Many  of  these  commissioners 
were  politicians,  working  in  close  touch  with  the  directors, 
and  not  averse  to  bleeding  the  Credit  Mobilier. 

All  the  engineers,  including  the  chief,  though  he  was  non 
committal,  were  bitter  about  this  expert-commissioner  law. 
If  a  good  road-bed  had  been  surveyed,  the  engineers  knew 
more  about  it  than  any  one  else.  They  were  the  pioneers 
of  the  work.  It  was  exceedingly  annoying  and  exasperat 
ing  to  have  a  number  of  men  travel  leisurely  in  trains  over 
the  line  and  criticize  the  labors  of  engineers  who  had 
toiled  in  heat  and  cold  and  wet,  with  brain  and  heart  in 
the  task.  But  it  was  so. 

In  May,  1866,  a  wagon-train  escorted  by  troops  rolled 
into  the  growing  camp  of  North  Platte,  and  the  first 

109 


THE    (J.    P.    TRAIL 

man  to  alight  was  Warren  Neale,  strong,  active,  eager- 
eyed  as  ever,  but  older  and  with  face  pale  from  his  indoor 
frork  and  hope  long  deferred. 

The  first  man  to  greet  him  was  Larry  King,  in  whom 
time  did  not  make  changes. 

They  met  as  long-separated  brothers. 

"Red,  how  're  your  horses?"  was  Neale's  query,  follow 
ing  the  greeting. 

"Wintered  well,  but  cost  me  all  I  had.  I'm  shore 
busted,"  replied  Larry. 

"I've  plenty  of  money,"  said  Neale,  "and  what's  mine 
is  yours.  Come  on,  Red.  We'll  get  light  packs  and  hit 
the  trail  for  the  Wyoming  hills." 

"Wai,  I  reckoned  so.  ...  Neale,  it's  shore  goin'  to  be 
risky.  The  Injuns  are  on  the  rampage  already.  You 
See  how  this  heah  camp  has  growed.  Men  ridin'  in  all 
since  winter  broke.  An'  them  from  west  tell  some  hard 
stories." 

"I've  got  to  go,"  replied  Neale,  with  emotion.  "It's 
nearly  a  year  since  I  saw  Allie.  Not  a  word  between  us 
in  all  that  time!  .  .  .  Red,  I  can't  stand  it  longer." 

"Shore,  I  know,"  replied  King,  hastily.  "You  ain\ 
reckonin'  I  wanted  to  crawfish?  I'll  go.  We'll  pack 
light,  hit  the  trail  at  night,  an'  hide  up  in  the  daytime," 

Neale  had  arrived  in  North  Platte  before  noon,  and 
before  sunset  he  and  King  were  far  out  on  the  swelling 
slopes  of  plain-land,  riding  toward  the  west. 

Traveling  by  night,  camping  by  day,  they  soon  left  be 
hind  them  the  monotonous  plains  of  Nebraska.  The  Sioux 
had  been  active  for  two  summers  along  the  southern  trails 
of  Wyoming.  The  Texan's  long  training  on  the  ranges 
stood  them  in  good  stead  here.  His  keen  eye  for  tracks 
and  smoke  and  distant  objects,  his  care  in  hiding  trails 
and  selecting  camps,  and  his  skill  and  judgment  in  all  per 
taining  to  the  horses — these  things  made  the  journey 
possible.  For  they  saw  Indian  signs  more  than  once  before 
the  Wyoming  hills  loomed  up  in  the  distance.  More 

no 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

man  one  flickering  camp-fire  they  avoided  by  a  wide 
detour. 

Slingerland's  valley  showed  all  the  signs  of  early  summer. 
The  familiar  trail,  however,  bore  no  tracks  of  horses  or 
man  or  beast.  A  heavy  rain  had  fallen  recently  and  it 
would  have  obliterated  tracks. 

Neale's  suspense  sustained  the  added  burden  of  dread. 
In  the  oppressive  silence  of  the  valley  he  read  some  name 
less  reason  for  fear.  The  trail  seemed  the  same,  the  brook 
flowed  and  murmured  as  of  old,  the  trees  shone  soft  and 
green,  but  Neale  sensed  a  difference.  He  dared  not  look 
at  Larry  for  confirmation  of  his  fears.  The  valley  had  not 
of  late  been  lived  in! 

Neale  rode  hard  up  the  trail  under  the  pines.  A  black 
ened  heap  lay  where  once  the  cabin  had  stood.  Neale's 
heart  gave  a  terrible  leap  and  then  seemed  to  cease  beat 
ing.  He  could  not  breathe  nor  speak  nor  move.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  black  remains  of  Slingerland's 
cabin. 

"Gawd  Almighty!"  gasped  Larry,  and  he  put  out  a 
shaking  hand  to  clutch  Neale.  "The  Injuns !  I  always 
feared  this — spite  of  Slingerland's  talk." 

The  feel  of  Larry's  fierce  fingers,  like  hot,  stinging  ar 
rows  in  his  flesh,  pierced  Neale's  mind  and  made  him 
realize  what  his  stunned  faculties  had  failed  to  grasp.  It 
seemed  to  loosen  the  vise-like  hold  upon  his  muscles,  to 
liberate  his  tongue. 

He  fell  off  his  horse. 

"Red !     Look— look  around  !" 

Allie  was  gone!  The  disappointment  at  not  seeing  her 
was  crushing,  and  the  fear  of  utter  loss  was  terrible.  Neale 
lay  on  the  ground,  blind,  sick,  full  of  agony,  with  his 
fingers  tearing  at  the  grass.  The  evil  presentiments  that 
had  haunted  him  for  months  had  not  been  groundless 
fancies.  Perhaps  Allie  had  called  to  him  again,  in  another 
hour  of  calamity,  and  this  time  he  had  not  responded. 
She  was  gone!  That  idea  struck  him  cold.  It  meant  the 

in 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

most  dreadful  of  all  happenings.  For  a  while  he  lay 
there,  prostrate  under  the  shock.  He  was  dimly  aware  of 
Larry's  coming  and  sitting  down  beside  him. 

"No  sign  of  any  one,"  he  said,  huskily.  "Not  even  a 
track!  .  .  .  Thet  fire  must  hev  been  about  two  weeks  ago. 
Mebbe  more,  but  not  much.  There's  been  a  big  rain 
an'  the  ground's  all  washed  clean  an'  smooth.  .  .  .  Not  a 
track!" 

It  was  the  cowboy's  habit  to  calculate  the  past  move 
ments  of  people  and  horses  by  the  nature  of  the  tracks  they 
left. 

Then  Neale  awoke  to  violence.  He  sprang  up  and  rushed 
to  the  ruins  of  the  cabin,  frantically  tore  and  dug  around 
the  burnt  embers,  and  did  not  leave  off  until  he  had  over 
hauled  the  whole  pile.  There  was  nothing  but  ashes  and 
embers.  Whereupon  he  ran  to  the  empty  corrals,  to  the 
sheds,  to  the  wood-pile,  to  the  spring,  and  all  around  the 
space  once  so  habitable.  There  was  nothing  to  reward  his 
fierce  energy — nothing  to  scrutinize.  Already  grass  was 
springing  in  the  trails  and  upon  spots  that  had  once  been 
bare. 

Neale  halted,  sweating,  hot,  wild,  before  his  friend. 
Larry  avoided  his  gaze. 

"She's  gone!  .    .    .  She's  gone!"  Neale  panted. 

"Wai,  mebbe  Slingerland  moved  camp  an'  burned  this 
place,"  suggested  Larry.  "He  was  sore  after  them  four 
road-agents  rustled  in  heah." 

' '  No — no.  He'd  have  left  the  cabin.  In  case  he  moved — 
Allie  was  to  write  me  a  note — telling  me  how  to  find  them. 
I  remember — we  picked  out  the  place  to  hide  the  note. .  .  . 
Oh!  she's  gone!  She's  gone!" 

"Wai,  then,  mebbe  Slingerland  got  away  an'  the  cabin 
was  burned  after." 

"I  can't  hope  that.  ...  I  tell  you — it  means  hell's 
opened  up  before  me." 

"Wai,  it's  tough,  I  know,  Neale,  but  mebbe — " 

Neale  wheeled  fiercely  upon  him.  "You're  only  saying 

112 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

those  things!  You  don't  believe  them!  Tell  me  what 
you  do  really  think." 

"Lord,  pard,  it  couldn't  be  no  wuss,"  replied  Larry,  his 
lean  face  working.  "I  figger  only  one  way.  This  heah. 
Slingerland  had  left  Allie  alone.  .  .  .  Then — she  was  made 
away  with  an*  the  cabin  burned." 

"Indians?" 

"Mebbe.  But  I  lean  more  to  the  idee  of  an  outfit  like 
thet  one  what  was  heah." 

Neale  groaned  in  his  torture.  "Not  that,  Reddy — not 
that!  .  .  .  The  Indians  would  kill  her — scalp  her — or 
take  her  captive  into  their  tribe.  .  .  .  But  a  gang  of 
cutthroat  ruffians  like  these.  .  .  .  My  God!  if  I  knew 
that  had  happened  it  'd  kill  me." 

Larry  swore  at  his  friend.  "  It  can't  do  no  good  to  go  to 
pieces,"  he  expostulated.  "Let's  do  somethin'." 

"What — in  Heaven's  name!"  cried  Neale,  in  despair. 

"Wai,  we  can  rustle  up  every  trail  in  these  heah  Black 
Hills.  Mebbe  we  can  find  Slingerland." 

Then  began  a  search — frantic,  desperate,  and  forlorn  on 
the  part  of  Neale;  faithful  and  dogged  and  keen  on  the 
part  of  King.  Neale  was  like  a  wild  man.  He  heeded  no 
advice  or  caution.  Only  the  cowboy's  iron  arm  saved  Neale 
and  his  horse.  It  was  imperative  to  find  water  and  grass, 
and  to  eat,  necessary  things  which  Neale  seemed  to  have 
forgotten.  He  seldom  slept  or  rested  or  ate.  They  risked 
meeting  the  Sioux  in  every  valley  and  on  every  ridge. 
Neale  would  have  welcomed  the  sight  of  Indians;  he  would 
have  rushed  into  peril  in  the  madness  of  his  grief.  Still, 
there  was  hope!  He  lived  all  the  hours  in  utter  agony  of 
mind,  but  his  heart  did  not  give  up. 

They  coursed  far  and  near,  always  keeping  to  the  stream 
beds,  for  if  Slingerland  had  made  another  camp  it  would 
be  near  water.  More  than  one  trail  led  nowhere;  more 
than  one  horse  track  roused  hopes  that  were  futile.  The 
Wyoming  hills  country  was  surely  a  lonely  and  a  wild  one, 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

singularly  baffling  to  the  searches,  for  in  two  weeks  of 
wide  travel  it  did  not  yield  a  sign  or  track  of  man.  Neale 
and  King  used  up  all  their  scant  supply  of  food,  threw 
away  all  their  outfit  except  a  bag  of  salt,  and  went  on, 
living  on  the  meat  they  shot. 

Then  one  day,  unexpectedly,  they  came  upon  two 
trappers  by  a  beaver-dam.  Neale  was  overcome  by  his 
emotions;  he  sensed  that  from  these  men  he  would  learn 
something.  The  first  look  from  them  told  him  that  his 
errand  was  known. 

"Howdy!"  greeted  Larry.  "It  shore  is  good  to  see  you 
men — the  fust  we've  come  on  in  an  awful  hunt  through 
these  heah  hills." 

"Thar  ain't  any  doubt  thet  you  look  it,  friend,"  replied 
one  of  the  trappers. 

"We're  huntin'  fer  Slingerland.  Do  you  happen  to 
Icnow  him?" 

"Knowed  Al  fer  years.  He  went  through  hyar  a  week 
ago — jest  after  the  big  rain,  wasn't  it,  Bill?" 

"Wai,  to  be  exact  it  was  eight  days  ago,"  replied  the 
comrade  Bill. 

"Was— he— alone?"  asked  Larry,  thickly. 

"  Sure,  an'  lookin'  sick.  He  lost  his  girl  not  long  since,  hs 
said,  an'  it  broke  him  bad." 

"Lost  her!    How?" 

"Wai,  he  was  sure  it  wasn't  redskins,"  rejoined  the 
trapper,  reflectively.  "Slingerland  stood  in  with  the 
Sioux — traded  with  'em.  He — " 

"Tell  me  quick!"  hoarsely  interrupted  Neale.  "What 
happened  to  Allie  Lee?" 

"Fellars,  my  pard  heah  is  hurt  deep,"  said  Larry.  "The 
girl  you  spoke  of  was  his  sweetheart." 

"Young  man,  we  only  know  what  Al  told  us,"  replied 
the  trapper.  "He  said  the  only  time  he  ever  left  the 
lass  alone  was  the  very  day  she  was  taken.  Al  come  home 
to  find  the  cabin  red-hot  ashes.  Everythin'  gone.  No  sign 
of  the  lass.  No  sign  of  murder.  She  was  jest  carried  off- 

114 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

There  was  tracks — hoss  tracks  an'  boot  tracks,  to  the 
number  of  three  or  four  men  an'  hosses.  Al  trailed  'em. 
But  thet  very  night  he  had  to  hold  up  to  keep  from  bein' 
drowned,  as  we  had  to  hyar.  Wai,  next  day  he  couldn't 
find  any  tracks.  But  he  kept  on  huntin'  fer  a  few  days, 
an'  then  give  up.  He  said  she'd  be  dead  by  then — said 
she  wasn't  the  kind  thet  could  have  lived  more  'n  a  day 
with  men  like  them.  Some  hard  customers  are  driftin'  by 
from  the  gold-fields.  An'  Bill  an'  I,  hyar,  ain't  in  love  with 
this  railroad  idee.  It  '11  ruin  the  country  fer  trappin'  an* 
livinV 

Some  weeks  later  a  gaunt  and  ragged  cowboy  limped 
into  North  Platte,  walking  beside  a  broken  horse,  upon  the 
back  of  which  swayed  and  reeled  a  rider  tied  in  the  saddle. 

It  was  not  a  sight  to  interest  any  except  the  lazy  or 
the  curious,  for  in  that  day  such  things  were  common  in 
North  Platte.  The  horse  had  bullet  creases  on  his  neck; 
the  rider  wore  a  bloody  shirt;  the  gaunt  pedestrian  had  a 
bandaged  arm. 

Neale  lay  ill  of  a  deeper  wound  while  the  bullet-hole 
healed  in  his  side.  Day  and  night  Larry  tended  him  or 
sat  by  him  or  slept  near  him  in  a  shack  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  camp.  Shock,  grief,  starvation,  exhaustion,  loss 
of  blood  and  sleep — all  these  brought  Warren  Neale  close 
to  death.  He  did  not  care  to  live.  It  was  the  patient, 
loyal  friend  who  fought  fever  and  heartbreak  and  the 
ebbing  tide  of  life. 

Baxter  and  Henney  visited  North  Platte  and  called  to 
see  him,  and  later  the  chief  came  and  ordered  Larry  to 
take  Neale  to  the  tents  of  the  corps.  Every  one  was  kind, 
solicitous,  earnest.  He  had  been  missed.  The  members  of 
his  corps  knew  the  strange  story  of  Allie  Lee ;  they  guessed 
the  romance  and  grieved  over  the  tragedy.  They  did  all 
they  could  do,  and  the  troop  doctor  added  his  attention; 
but  it  was  the  nursing,  the  presence,  and  the  spirit  of 
Larry  King  that  saved  Neale. 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  got  well  and  went  back  to  work  with  the  cowbo} 
for  his  helper. 

In  that  camp  of  toil  and  disorder  none  but  the  few  with 
whom  Neale  was  brought  in  close  touch  noted  anything 
singular  about  him.  The  engineers,  however,  observed 
that  he  did  not  work  so  well,  nor  so  energetically,  nor  so 
accurately.  His  enthusiasm  was  lacking.  The  cowboy, 
always  with  him,  was  the  one  who  saw  the  sudden  spells 
of  somber  abstraction  and  the  poignant,  hopeless,  sleep 
less  pain,  the  eternal  regret.  And  as  Neale  slackened  in  his 
duty  Larry  King  grew  more  faithful. 

Neale  began  to  drink  and  gamble.  For  long  the  cow 
boy  fought,  argued,  appealed  against  this  order  of  things, 
and  then,  failing  to  change  or  persuade  Neale,  he  went  to 
gambling  and  drinking  with  him.  But  then  it  was  noted 
that  Neale  never  got  under  the  influence  of  liquor  or  lost 
materially  at  cards.  The  cowboy  spilled  the  contents  of 
Neale 's  glass  and  played  the  game  into  his  hands. 

Both  of  them  shrank  instinctively  from  the  women  of 
the  camp.  The  sight  of  anything  feminine  hurt. 

North  Platte  stirred  with  the  quickening  stimulus  of  the 
approach  of  the  rails  and  the  trains,  and  the  army  of 
soldiers  whose  duty  was  to  protect  the  horde  of  toilers,  and 
the  army  of  tradesmen  and  parasites  who  lived  off  them. 

The  construction  camp  of  the  graders  moved  on  west 
ward,  keeping  ahead  of  the  camps  of  the  layers. 

The  first  train  that  reached  North  Platte  brought  direc 
tors  of  the  U.  P.  R. — among  them  Warburton  and  Rudd 
and  Rogers ;  also  Commissioners  Lee  and  Dunn  and  a  host 
of  followers  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 

The  five  miles  of  Neale's  section  of  road  that  the  com 
missioners  had  judged  at  fault  had  been  torn  up,  resur- 
veyed,  and  relaid. 

Neale  rode  back  over  the  line  with  Baxter  and  sur 
veyed  the  renewed  part.  Then,  returning  to  North  Platte, 
he  precipitated  consternation  among  directors  and  com- 

1x6 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

missioners  and  engineers,  as  they  sat  in  council,  by  throw* 
ing  on  the  table  figures  of  the  new  survey  identical  with 
his  old  data. 

"Gentlemen,  the  five  miles  of  track  torn  up  and  rebuilt 
had  precisely  the  same  grade,  to  an  inch!"  he  declared,  with 
ringing  scorn. 

Baxter  corroborated  his  statement.  The  commissioners 
roared  and  the  directors  demanded  explanations. 

"I'll  explain  it,"  shouted  Neale.  "Forty-six  thousand 
dollars  a  mile !  Five  miles — two  hundred  and  thirty  thou 
sand  dollars !  Spent  twice !  Taken  twice  by  the  same  con 
struction  company!" 

Warburton,  a  tall,  white-haired  man  in  a  frock-coat, 
got  up  and  pounded  the  table  with  his  fist.  "Who  is  this 
young  engineer?"  he  thundered.  "He  has  the  nerve  to 
back  his  work  instead  of  sneaking  to  get  a  bribe.  And  he 
tells  the  truth.  We're  building  twice — spending  twice 
when  once  is  enough!" 

An  uproar  ensued.  Neale  had  cast  a  bomb  into  the 
council.  Every  man  there  and  all  the  thousands  in  camp 
knew  that  railroad  ties  cost  several  dollars  each ;  that  wages 
were  abnormally  high,  often  demanded  in  advance,  and 
often  paid  twice;  that  parallel  with  the  great  spirit  of  the 
work  ran  a  greedy  and  cunning  graft.  It  seemed  to  be  in 
evitable,  considering  the  nature  and  proportions  of  the 
enterprise.  An  absurd  law  sent  out  the  commissioners, 
the  politicians  appointed  them,  and  both  had  fat  pickings. 
The  directors  likewise  played  both  ends  against  the  mid 
dle;  they  received  the  money  from  the  stock  sales  and 
loans;  they  paid  it  out  to  the  construction  companies; 
and  as  they  employed  and  owned  these  companies  the 
i  money  returned  to  their  own  pockets.  But  more  than 
one  director  was  fired  by  the  spirit  of  the  project — the 
good  to  be  done — the  splendid  achievement — the  trade  to 
come  from  across  the  Pacific.  The  building  of  the  road 
meant  more  to  some  of  them  than  a  mere  fortune. 

Warburton  was  the  lion  of  this  group,  and  he  roared 

117 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

down  the  dissension.  Then  with  a  whirl  he  grasped  Neale 
round  the  shoulders  and  shoved  him  face  to  face  with  the 
others. 

"  Here's  the  kind  of  man  we  want  on  this  job !"  he  shouted, 
with  red  face  and  bulging  jaw.  "His  name's  Neale.  I've 
heard  of  some  of  his  surveys.  You've  all  seen  him  face 
this  council.  That  only,  gentlemen,  is  the  spirit  which 
can  build  the  U.  P.  R.  Let's  push  him  up.  Let's  send  him 
to  Washington  with  those  figures.  Let's  break  this  damned 
idiotic  law  for  appointing  commissioners  to  undo  the  work 
of  efficient  men." 

Opportunity  was  again  knocking  at  Neale' s  door. 

Allison  Lee  arose  in  the  flurry,  and  his  calm,  cold  pres 
ence,  the  steel  of  his  hard  gray  eyes,  and  the  motion  of 
his  hand  entitled  him  to  a  voice. 

"Mr.  Warburton — and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  remember 
this  young  engineer  Neale.  When  I  got  here  to-day  I 
inquired  about  him,  remembering  that  he  had  taken  severe 
exception  to  the  judgment  of  the  commissioners  about  that 
five  miles  of  road-bed.  I  learned  he  is  a  strange,  excitable 
young  fellow,  who  leaves  his  work  for  long  wild  trips  and 
who  is  a  drunkard  and  a  gambler.  It  seems  to  me  some 
what  absurd  seriously  to  consider  the  false  report  with  which 
he  has  excited  this  council." 

' '  It's  not  false, ' '  retorted  Neale,  with  flashing  eyes.  Then 
he  appealed  to  Warburton  and  he  was  white  and  eloquent. 
"You  directors  know  better.  This  man  Lee  is  no  engineer. 
He  doesn't  know  a  foot-grade  from  a  forty-five-degree 
slope.  Not  a  man  in  that  outfit  had  the  right  or  the 
knowledge  to  pass  judgment  on  our  work.  It's  political. 
It's  a  damned  outrage.  It's  graft." 

Another  commissioner  bounced  up  with  furious  gestures. 

"We'll  have  you  fired!"  he  shouted. 

Neale  looked  at  him  and  back  at  Allison  Lee  and  then  at 
Warburton. 

"I  quit,"  he  declared,  with  scorn.  "To  hell  with  youf 
rotten  railroad!" 

118 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Another  hubbub  threatened  in  the  big  tent.  Some  one 
yelled  for  quiet. 

And  suddenly  there  was  quiet,  but  it  did  not  come  from 
that  individual's  call.  A  cowboy  had  detached  himself 
from  the  group  of  curious  onlookers  and  had  confronted 
the  council  with  two  big  guns  held  low. 

"Red!    Hold  on!"  cried  Neale. 

It  was  Larry.    One  look  at  him  blanched  Neale's  face. 

"Everybody  sit  still  an'  let  me  talk,"  drawled  Larry, 
with  the  cool,  reckless  manner  that  now  seemed  so  deadly. 

No  one  moved,  and  the  silence  grew  unnatural.  The 
cowboy  advanced  a  few  strides.  His  eyes,  with  a  singular 
piercing  intentness,  were  bent  upon  Allison  Lee,  yet 
seemed  to  hold  all  the  others  in  sight.  He  held  one  gun 
in  direct  alignment  with  Lee,  low  down,  and  with  the 
other  he  rapped  on  the  table.  The  gasp  that  went  up 
from  round  that  table  proved  that  some  one  saw  the  guns 
were  both  cocked. 

"  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  Neale  lied  aboot  them  sur- 
veyin'  figgers?"  he  queried,  gently. 

Allison  Lee  turned  as  white  as  a  corpse.  The  cowboy 
radiated  some  dominating  force,  but  the  chill  in  his  voice 
was  terrible.  It  meant  that  life  was  nothing  to  him — nor 
death.  What  was  the  U.  P.  R.  to  him,  or  its  directors, 
or  its  commissioners,  or  the  law  ?  There  was  no  law  in  that 
wild  camp  but  the  law  in  his  hands.  And  he  knew  it. 

"Did  you  say  my  pard  lied?"  he  repeated. 

Allison  Lee  struggled  and  choked  over  a  halting,  "No." 

The  cowboy  backed  away,  slowly,  carefully,  with  soft 
steps,  and  he  faced  the  others  as  he  moved. 

"I  reckon  thet's  aboot  all,"  he  said,  and,  slipping  into  the 
crowd,  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AFTER  Neale  and  Larry  left,  Slingerland  saw  four 
seasons  swing  round,  in  which  no  visitors  disturbed 
the  loneliness  of  his  valley. 

All  this  while  he  did  not  leave  Allie  Lee  alone,  or  at  least 
out  of  hearing.  When  he  went  to  tend  his  traps  or  to  hunt, 
to  chop  wood  or  to  watch  the  trail,  Allie  always  accom 
panied  him.  She  grew  strong  and  supple;  she  could  walk 
far  and  carry  a  rifle  or  pack;  she  was  keen  of  eye  and  ear, 
and  she  loved  the  wilds;  she  not  only  was  of  help  to  him, 
but  she  made  the  time  pass  swiftly. 

When  a  year  passed  after  the  departure  of  Neale  and 
Larry  King  it  seemed  to  Slingerland  that  they  would  never 
return.  There  was  peril  on  the  trails  these  days.  He  grew 
more  and  more  convinced  of  some  fatality,  but  he  did  not 
confide  his  fears  to  Allie.  She  was  happy  and  full  of  trust; 
every  day,  almost  every  hour,  she  looked  for  Neale.  The 
long  wait  did  not  drag  her  down;  she  was  as  fresh  and 
hopeful  as  ever  and  the  rich  bloom  mantled  her  cheek. 
Slingerland  had  not  the  heart  to  cast  a  doubt  into  her 
happiness.  He  let  her  live  her  dreams. 

There  came  a  day  that  spring  when  it  was  imperative 
for  him  to  visit  a  distant  valley,  where  he  had  left  traps 
he  now  needed,  and  as  the  distance  was  long  and  time 
short  he  decided  to  go  alone.  Allie  laughed  at  the  idea  of 
being  unsafe  at  the  cabin. 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  she  said.    "I'm  not  afraid." 

Slingerland  scarcely  doubted  her.  She  had  nerve, 
courage ;  she  knew  how  to  use  a  gun ;  and  underneath  her 
softness  and  tenderness  was  a  spirit  that  would  not  flinch 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

at  anything.  Still  he  did  not  feel  satisfied  with  the  idea  ot 
leaving  her  alone,  and  it  was  with  a  wrench  that  he  did  it 
now. 

Moreover,  he  was  longer  at  the  journey  than  he  had 
anticipated.  The  moment  he  turned  his  face  homeward, 
a  desire  to  hurry,  an  anxiety,  a  dread  fastened  upon  him. 
A  presentiment  of  evil  gathered.  But,  encumbered  as  he 
was  with  heavy  traps,  he  could  not  travel  swiftly.  It  was 
late  afternoon  when  he  topped  the  last  ridge  between  him 
and  home. 

What  Slingerland  saw  caused  him  to  drop  his  traps  and 
gaze  aghast.  A  heavy  column  of  smoke  rose  above  the 
valley.  His  first  thought  was  of  Sioux.  But  he  doubted 
if  the  Indians  would  betray  his  friendship.  The  cabin 
had  caught  on  fire  by  accident  or  else  a  band  of  wandering 
desperadoes  had  happened  along  to  ruin  him.  He  ran  down 
the  slope,  stole  down  round  to  the  group  of  pines,  and  under 
cover,  cautiously,  approached  the  spot  where  his  cabin  had 
stood. 

It  was  a  heap  of  smoking  logs  and  probably  had  burned 
for  hours.  There  was  no  sign  of  Allie  or  of  any  one.  Then 
he  ran  into  the  glade.  Almost  at  once  he  saw  boot-tracks 
and  hoof-tracks,  while  pelts  and  hides  and  furs  lay  scat 
tered  around,  as  if  they  had  been  discarded  for  choicer 
ones. 

"Robbers!"  muttered  Slingerland.  "An'  they've  got 
the  lass!" 

He  shook  under  the  roughest  blow  he  had  ever  been 
dealt;  his  conscience  flayed  him;  his  distress  over  Allie'? 
fate  was  so  keen  and  unfamiliar  that,  used  as  he  was  to 
prompt  decision  and  action,  he  remained  stock-still,  staring 
at  the  ruins  of  his  home. 

Presently  he  roused  himself.  He  had  no  hopes.  He 
knew  the  nature  of  men  who  had  done  this  deed.  But  it 
was  possible  that  he  might  overtake  them.  In  the  dust  he 
found  four  sizes  of  boot-tracks  and  he  took  the  trail  down 
the  valley. 

9  121 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

Then  he  became  aware  that  a  storm  was  imminent 
and  that  the  air  had  become  cold  and  raw.  Rain  began 
to  fall,  and  darkness  came  quickly.  Slingerland  sought 
the  shelter  of  a  near-by  ledge,  and  there,  hungry,  cold,  wet, 
and  unhappy,  he  waited  for  sleep  that  would  not  come. 

It  rained  hard  all  night  and  by  morning  the  brook  had 
become  a  yellow  flood  and  the  trail  was  under  water. 
Toward  noon  the  rain  turned  to  a  drizzly  snow,  and 
finally  ceased.  Slingerland  passed  on  down  the  valley, 
searching  for  tracks.  The  ground  everywhere  had  been 
washed  clean  and  smooth.  When  he  reached  the  old  St. 
Vrain  and  Laramie  Trail  it  looked  as  though  a  horse  had 
not  passed  there  in  months.  He  spent  another  wretched 
night,  and  next  day  awoke  to  the  necessities  of  life.  Ex 
cept  for  his  rifle,  and  his  horses,  and  a  few  traps  back  up 
in  the  hills,  he  had  nothing  to  show  for  years  of  hard  and 
successful  work.  But  that  did  not  matter.  He  had  begun 
with  as  little  and  he  could  begin  again.  He  killed  meat, 
satisfied  his  hunger,  and  cooked  more  that  he  might  carry 
with  him.  Then  he  spent  two  more  days  in  that  localit^- 
until  he  had  crossed  every  outlet  from  his  valley.  N  Jt 
striking  a  track,  he  saw  nothing  but  defeat. 

That  moment  was  bitter.  ''If  Neale  'd  happen  along 
hyar  now  he'd  kill  me — an'  sarve  me  right,"  muttered  the 
trapper. 

But  he  believed  that  Neale,  too,  had  gone  the  way  of 
so  many  who  had  braved  these  wilds.  Slingerland  saw  in 
the  fate  of  Neale  and  Allie  the  result  of  civilization  march 
ing  westward.  If  before  he  had  disliked  the  idea  of  the 
railroad  entering  his  wild  domain,  he  hated  it  now.  Before 
that  survey  the  Indians  had  been  peaceful  and  no  dan 
gerous  men  rode  the  trails.  What  right  had  the  Govern 
ment  to  steal  land  from  the  Indians,  to  break  treaties,  to 
run  a  steam  track  across  the  plains  and  mountains?  Slin 
gerland  foresaw  the  bloodiest  period  ever  known  in  the 
West,  before  that  work  should  be  completed.  It  had  struck 
him  deep — this  white-man  movement  across  the  Wyoming 

122 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

hills,  and  it  was  not  the  loss  of  all  he  had  worked  for 
that  he  minded.  For  years  his  life  had  been  lonely,  and 
then  suddenly  it  had  been  full.  Never  again  would  it  be 
either. 

Slingerland  turned  his  back  to  the  trail  made  by  the 
advancing  march  of  the  empire-builders,  and  sought  the 
seclusion  of  the  more  inaccessible  hills. 

"Some  day  I'll  work  out  with  a  load  of  pelts/'  he  said, 
"an'  then  mebbe  I'll  hyar  what  become  of  Neale — an' 
her." 

He  found,  as  one  of  his  kind  knew  how  to  find,  the 
valleys  where  no  white  man  had  trod — where  the  game 
abounded  and  was  tame — where  if  the  red  man  came 
he  was  friendly — where  the  silent  days  and  lonely  nights 
slowly  made  more  bearable  his  memory  of  Allie  Lee. 


123 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  LLIE  LEE  possessed  a  mind  at  once  active  and  con*. 
A\  templative.  While  she  dreamed  of  Neale  and  their 
future  she  busied  herself  with  many  tasks,  and  a  whole 
year  flew  by  without  a  lagging  or  melancholy  hour. 

Neale,  she  believed,  had  been  detained  or  sent  back  to 
Omaha,  or  given  more  important  work  than  formerly. 
She  divined  Slingerland's  doubt,  but  she  would  not  give 
it  room  in  her  consciousness.  Her  heart  told  her  that 
all  was  well  with  Neale,  and  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
return  to  her. 

In  Allie  love  had  worked  magic.  It  had  freed  her  from  a 
horrible  black  memory.  She  had  been  alone ;  she  had  wanted 
to  die  so  as  to  forget  those  awful  yells  and  screams — the 
murder — the  blood — the  terror  and  the  anguish;  she  had 
nothing  to  want  to  live  for;  she  had  almost  hated  those 
two  kind  men  who  tried  so  hard  to  make  her  forget.  Then 
suddenly,  she  never  quite  remembered  when,  she  had  seen 
Neale  with  different  eyes.  A  few  words,  a  touch,  a  gift,  and 
a  pledge — and  life  had  been  transformed  for  Allie  Lee. 
Like  a  flower  blooming  overnight,  her  heart  had  opened  to 
love,  and  all  the  distemper  in  her  blood  and  all  the  black 
ness  in  her  mind  were  dispelled.  The  relief  from  pain  and 
'dread  was  so  great  that  love  became  a  beautiful  and  all- 
absorbing  passion.  Freed  then,  and  strangely  happy, 
she  took  to  the  life  around  her  as  naturally  as  if  she  had 
been  born  there,  and  she  grew  like  a  wild  flower.  Neale 
returned  to  her  that  autumn  to  make  perfect  the  realiza 
tion  of  her  dreams.  When  he  went  away  she  could  still  be 
happy.  She  owed  it  to  him  to  be  perfect  in  joy,  faith,  love, 

144 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

and  duty;  and  her  adversity  had  discovered  to  her  an 
inward  courage  and  an  indomitable  will.  She  lived  foi 
Neale. 

Summer,  autumn,  winter  passed,  short  days  full  of 
solitude,  beauty,  thought,  and  anticipation,  and  always 
achievement,  for  she  could  not  stay  idle.  When  the  first 
green  brightened  the  cottonwoods  and  willows  along  the  * 
brook  she  knew  that  before  their  leaves  had  attained 
Iheir  full  growth  Neale  would  be  on  his  way  to  her.  A 
strange  and  inexplicable  sense  of  the  heart  told  her  that  he 
was  coming. 

More  than  once  that  spring  had  she  bent  over  the 
mossy  rock  to  peer  down  at  her  face  mirrored  in  the  crystal 
spring.  Neale  had  made  her  aware  of  her  beauty,  and  she 
was  proud  of  it,  since  it  seemed  to  be  such  a  strange  treasure 
to  him. 

On  the  May  morning  that  Slingerland  left  her  alone  she 
was  startled  by  the  clip-clop  of  horses  trotting  up  the  trail 
a  few  hours  after  his  departure. 

Her  first  thought  was  that  Neale  and  Larry  had  re 
turned.  All  her  being  suddenly  radiated  with  rapture. 
She  flew  to  the  door. 

Four  horsemen  rode  into  the  clearing,  but  Neale  was  not 
among  them. 

Allie's  joy  was  short-lived,  and  the  reaction  to  disappoint 
ment  was  a  violent,  agonizing  wrench.  She  lost  all  control 
of  her  muscles  for  a  moment,  and  had  to  lean  against 
the  cabin  to  keep  from  falling. 

By  this  time  the  foremost  rider  had  pulled  in  his  horse 
near  the  door.  He  was  a  young  giant  with  hulking  shoul 
ders,  ruddy-faced,  bold-eyed,  ugly-mouthed.  lie  re^ 
minded  Allie  of  some  one  she  had  seen  in  California. 
He  stared  hard  at  her. 

"Hullo!  Ain't  you  Durade's  girl?"  he  asked,  in  gruff 
astonishment. 

Then  Allie  knew  she  had  seen  him  out  in  the  gold-fields. 

125 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  replied. 

"A-huh!  You  look  oncommon  like  her.  .  .  .  Anybody 
home  round  here?" 

"Slingerland  went  over  the -hill,"  said  Allie.  "He'll  be 
back  presently." 

The  fellow  brushed  her  aside  and  went  into  the  cabin. 
Then  the  other  three  riders  arrived. 

"Mornin',  miss,"  said  one,  a  grizzled  veteran,  who  might 
have  been  miner,  trapper,  or  bandit.  The  other  two  reined 
in  behind  him.  One  wore  a  wide-brimmed  black  som 
brero  from  under  which  a  dark,  sinister  face  gleamed. 
The  last  man  had  sandy  hair  and  light  roving  eyes. 

"Whar's  Fresno?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  inside,"  replied  the  man  called  Fresno,  and  he 
appeared  at  the  door.  He  stretched  out  a  long  arm  and 
grasped  Allie  before  she  could  avoid  him.  When  she 
began  to  struggle  the  huge  hand  closed  on  her  wrist  until 
she  could  have  screamed  with  pain. 

"Hold  on,  girl!  It  won't  do  you  no  good  to  jerk,  an* 
if  you  holler  I'll  choke  you,"  he  said  "Fellers,  get  inside 
the  cabin  an'  rustle  around  lively." 

With  one  pull  he  hauled  Allie  toward  his  horse,  and, 
taking  a  lasso  off  his  saddle,  he  roped  her  arms  to  her  sides 
and  tied  her  to  the  nearest  tree. 

"Keep  mum  now  or  it  '11  be  the  wuss  fer  you,"  he  or 
dered;  then  he  went  into  the  cabin. 

They  were  a  bad  lot,  and  Slingerland 's  reason  for  worry 
had  a.t  last  been  justified.  Allie  did  not  fully  realize  her 
predicament  until  she  found  herself  bound  to  the  tree. 
Then  she  was  furious,  and  strained  with  all  her  might  to 
slip  free  of  the  rope.  But  the  efforts  were  useless;  she 
only  succeeded  in  bruising  her  arms  for  nothing.  When 
she  desisted  she  was  ready  to  succumb  to  despair,  until 
a  flashing  thought  of  Neale,  of  the  agony  that  must  be  his 
if  he  lost  her  or  if  harm  befell  her,  drew  her  up  sharply, 
thrillingly.  A  girl's  natural  and  instinctive  fear  was  vaiy 
quished  by  her  love. 

126 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

She  heard  the  robbers  knocking  things  about  in  the 
cabin.  They  threw  bales  of  beaver  pelts  out  of  the  door. 
Presently  Fresno  reappeared  carrying  a  buckskin  sack  in 
which  Slingerland  kept  his  money  and  few  valuables,  and 
the  others  followed,  quarreling  over  a  cane-covered  demi 
john  in  which  there  had  once  been  liquor. 

"Nary  a  drop!"  growled  the  one  who  got  possession  of 
it.  And  with  rage  he  threw  the  thing  back  into  the  cabin, 
where  it  crashed  into  the  fire. 

"Sandy,  you've  scattered  the  fire,"  protested  the  griz 
zled  robber,  as  he  glanced  into  the  cabin.  "Them  furs 
is  catchin'." 

"Let  'em  burn!"  called  Fresno.  "We  got  all  we  want. 
Come  on." 

"But  what's  the  sense  burnin'  the  feller's  cabin  down?" 

"Nuthin'  '11  burn,"  said  the  dark-faced  man,  "an'  if 
it  does  it  '11  look  like  Indians'  work.  Savvy,  Old  Miles?" 

They  shuffled  out  together.  Evidently  Fresno  was  the 
leader,  or  at  least  the  strongest  force.  He  looked  at  the 
sack  in  his  hand  and  then  at  Allie. 

"You  fellers  fight  over  thet,"  he  said,  and,  throwing  the 
sack  on  the  ground,  he  strode  toward  Allie. 

The  three  men  all  made  a  rush  for  the  sack  and  Sandy 
got  it.  The  other  two  pressed  round  him,  not  threaten 
ingly,  but  aggressively,  sure  of  their  rights. 

"I'll  divide,"  said  Sandy,  as  he  mounted  his  horse. 
"Wait  till  we  make  camp.  You  fellers  pack  the  beavers." 

Fresno  untied  Allie  from  the  tree,  but  he  left  the  lasso 
round  her;  holding  to  it  and  her  arm,  he  rudely  dragged 
her  to  his  horse. 

"Git  up,  an'  hurry,"  he  ordered. 

Allie  mounted.     The  stirrups  were  too  long. 

"You  fellers  clear  out,"  called  Fresno,  "an*  ketch  me 
one  of  them  bosses  we  seen  along  the  brook." 

While  he  readjusted  the  stirrups  Allie  looked  down  upon 
him.  He  was  an  uncouth  ruffian,  and  his  touch  gave  her  an 
insupportable  disgust.  He  wore  no  weapons,  but  his  sad- 

127 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

die  holster  contained  a  revolver  and  the  sheath  a  Win 
chester.  Allie  could  have  shot  him  and  made  a  run  for 
it,  and  she  had  the  nerve  to  attempt  it.  The  others,  how 
ever,  did  not  get  out  of  sight  before  Fresno  had  the  stir 
rups  adjusted.  He  strode  after  them,  leading  the  horse. 
Allie  glanced  back  to  see  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  coming 
out  of  the  cabin  door.  Then  she  faced  about,  desperately 
resolved  to  take  any  chance  to  get  away.  She  decided 
that  she  would  not  be  safe  among  these  men  for  very  long. 
Whatever  she  was  to  do  she  must  do  that  day,  and  she 
only  awaited  her  opportunity. 

At  the  ford  Sandy  caught  one  of  Slingerland's  horses — a 
mustang  and  a  favorite  of  Allie's,  and  one  she  could  ride. 
He  was  as  swift  as  the  wind.  Once  upon  him,  she  could 
run  away  from  any  horse  which  these  robbers  rode.  Fresno 
put  the  end  of  the  lasso  round  the  mustang's  neck. 

"Can  you  ride  bareback?"  he  asked  Allie. 

Allied  lied.  Her  first  thought  was  to  lead  them  astray 
as  to  her  skill  with  a  horse;  and  then  it  occurred  to  her 
that  if  she  rode  Fresno's  saddle  there  might  be  an  oppor 
tunity  to  use  the  gun. 

Fresno  leaped  astride  the  mustang,  and  was  promptly 
bucked  off.  The  other  men  guffawed.  Fresno  swore 
and,  picking  himself  up,  tried  again.  This  time  the  mus 
tang  behaved  better,  but  it  was  plain  he  did  not  like  the 
weight.  Then  Fresno  started  off,  leading  his  own  horse, 
and  at  a  trot  that  showed  he  wanted  to  cover  ground. 

Allie  heard  the  others  quarreling  over  something,  prob 
ably  the  gold  Slingerland  had  been  so  many  years  in 
accumulating. 

They  rode  on  to  where  the  valley  opened  into  another, 
^long  which  wound  the  old  St.  Vrain  and  Laramie  Trail. 
They  kept  to  this,  traveling  east  for  a  few  miles,  and  then 
entered  an  intersecting  valley,  where  some  distance  up 
they  .had  a  camp.  They  had  not  taken  the  precaution  to 
hide  either  packs  or  mules,  and  so  far  as  Allie  could  tell 
the**"  had  no  fear  of  Indians.  Probably  they  had  crossed 

128 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

from  California,  and,  being  dishonest  and  avoiding  cara 
vans  and  camps,  they  had  not  become  fully  acquainted 
with  the  perils  of  that  region. 

It  was  about  noon  when  they  arrived  at  this  place.  The 
sun  was  becoming  blurred  and  a  storm  appeared  brewing. 
Fresno  dismounted,  dropping  the  halter  of  the  mustang. 
Then  he  let  go  his  own  bridle.  The  eyes  he  bent  on  Allie 
made  her  turn  hers  away  as  from  something  that  could 
scorch  and  stain.  He  pulled  her  off  the  saddle,  rudely, 
with  coarse  and  meaning  violence. 

Allie  pushed  him  back  and  faced  him.  In  a  way  she 
had  been  sheltered  all  her  life,  yet  she  had  lived  among 
such  men  as  this  man,  and  she  knew  that  resistance  or 
pleadings  were  useless;  they  would  only  inflame  him. 
She  was  not  ready  yet  to  court  death. 

"Wait,"  she  said. 

"A-huh!"  he  grunted,  breathing  heavily.  He  was  an 
animal,  slow-witted  and  brutal. 

"Fresno,  I  am  Durade's  girl!"  she  went  on. 

"I  thought  I  knowed  you.  But  you're  grown  to  be  a 
woman  an'  a  dam'  pretty  one." 

Allie  drew  him  aside,  farther  from  the  others,  who  had 
renewed  a  loud  altercation.  "Fresno,  it's  gold  you  want," 
she  affirmed,  rather  than  asked. 

"Sure.  But  no  small  stake  like  thet  'd  be  my  choice — 
ag'in'  you,"  he  leered,  jerking  a  thumb  back  at  his  com 
panions. 

"You  remember  Horn?"  went  on  Allie. 

"Horn!  The  miner  who  made  thet  big  strike  out  near 
Sacramento?" 

"Yes,  that's  who  I  mean,"  replied  Allie,  hurriedly. 
"We — we  left  California  in  his  caravan.  He  brought  all 
his  gold  with  him." 

Fresno  showed  a  growing  interest. 

"We  were  attacked  by  Sioux.  .  .  .  Horn  buried  all  that 
gold — on  the  spot.  All — all  the  others  were  killed — ex 
cept  me.  .  .  .  And  I  know  where — "  Allie  shuddered  with 

129 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

what   the   words   brought   up.     But   no   memory   could 
weaken  her. 

Fresno  opened  his  large  mouth  to  bawl  this  unexpected 
news  to  his  comrades. 

"Don't  call  them — don't  tell  them,"  Allie  whispered. 
44  There's  only  one  condition.  I'll  take  you — where  that 
gold's  hidden." 

"Girl,  I  can  make  you  tell,"  he  replied,  menacingly. 

"No,  you  can't." 

"You  ain't  so  smart  you  think  I'll  let  you  go — jest  fer 
some  gold?"  he  queried.  "Gold  '11  be  cheap  along  this 
trail  soon.  An'  girls  like  you  are  scarce." 

"No,  that's  not  what  I  meant.  .  .  .  Get  rid  of  the  others 
— and  I'll  take  you  where  Horn  buried  his  gold." 

Fresno  stared  at  her.  He  grinned.  The  idea  evidently 
surprised  and  flattered  him;  yet  it  was  perplexing. 

"But  Frank — he's  my  pard — thet  one  with  the  black 
hat,"  he  protested.  "I  couldn't  do  no  dirt  to  Frank.  .  .  . 
What's  your  game,  girl?  I'll  beat  you  into  tellin'  me  where 
thet  gold  is." 

"Beating  won't  make  me  tell,"  replied  Allie,  with  in 
tensity.  "Nothing  will — if  I  don't  want  to.  My  game 
is  for  my  life.  You  know  I've  no  chance  among  four  men 
like  you." 

"Aw,  I  don't  know  about  thet,"he  blustered.  "  I  can  take 
care  of  you.  .  .  .  But,  say,  if  you'd  stand  fer  Frank,  mebbe 
I'll  take  you  up.  ...  Girl,  are  you  lyin'  about  thet  gold?" 

"No." 

"Why  didn't  the  trapper  dig  it  up?  You  must  hev  told 
him." 

"Because  he  was  afraid  to  keep  it  in  or  near  his  cabin. 
We  meant  to  leave  it  until  we  were  ready  to  get  out  of 
the  country." 

That  appeared  plausible  to  Fresno  and  he  grew  more 
thoughtful. 

Meanwhile  the  altercation  among  the  other  three  ruf 
fians  assumed  proportions  that  augured  a  fight. 

130 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"I'll  divide  this  sack  when  I  git  good  an'  ready,"  de- 
dared  Sandy. 

''But,  pard,  thet's  no  square  deal,"  protested  Old  Miles, 
"I'm  a-gittin'  mad.  I  seen  you  meant  to  keep  it  all." 

The  dark-faced  ruffian  shoved  a  menacing  fist  under 
Sandy's  nose.  "When  do  I  git  mine?"  he  demanded. 

Fresno  wheeled  and  called,  "Prank,  you  come  here!" 

The  other  approached  sullenly.  "Fresno,  thet  Sandy 
is  whole  hog  or  none!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Let  'em  fight  it  out,"  replied  Fresno.  "We've  got  a 
bigger  game.  .  .  .  Besides,  they'll  shoot  each  other  up. 
Then  we'll  hev  it  all.  Come,  give  'em  elbow  room." 

He  led  Allie  and  his  horse  away  a  little  distance. 

"Fetch  them  packs,  Frank,"  he  called. 

The  mustang  followed,  and  presently  Frank  came  with 
one  of  the  packs.  Fresno  slipped  the  saddle  from  his 
horse,  and,  laying  it  under  a  tree,  he  pulled  gun  and  rifle 
from  their  sheaths.  The  gun  he  stuck  in  his  belt;  the 
rifle  he  leaned  against  a  branch. 

"Sandy  '11  plug  Old  Miles  in  jest  another  minnit,"  re 
marked  Fresno. 

"What's  this  other  game?"  queried  Frank,  curiously. 

"It's  gold,  Frank — gold,"  replied  Fresno;  and  in  few 
words  he  told  his  comrade  about  Horn's  buried  treasure. 
But  he  did  not  mention  the  condition  under  which  the 
girl  would  reveal  its  hiding-place.  Evidently  he  had  no 
doubt  that  he  could  force  her  to  tell. 

"Let's  rustle."  cried  Frank,  his  dark  face  gleaming, 
"We  want  to  git  out  of  this  country  quick." 

"You  bet!  An'  I  wonder  when  we'll  be  fetchin'  up  with 
them  railroad  camps  we  heerd  about.  .  .  .  Camps  full  of  gold 
an'  whisky  an'  wimmen!" 

"We've  enough  on  our  hands  now,"  replied  Frank. 
"Let's  rustle  fer  thet—" 

A  gun-shot  interrupted  him.  Then  a  hoarse  curse  rang 
out — and  then  two  more  reports  from  a  different  gun. 

"Them   last   was   Sandy's,"   observed   Fresno,    coolly. 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"An'  of  course  they  landed.  ...  Go  see  if  Old  Miles  hit 
Sandy." 

Frank  strode  off  under  the  trees. 

Allie  had  steeled  herself  to  anything,  and  those  shots 
framed  her  that  now  she  had  two  less  enemies  to  contend 
with,  and  that  she  must  be  quick  to  seize  the  first  oppor 
tunity  to  act.  She  could  leap  upon  the  mustang,  and  if 
she  was  lucky  she  could  get  away.  She  could  jump  foi 
the  Winchester  and  surely  shoot  one  of  these  villains, 
perhaps  both  of  them.  But  the  spirit  that  gave  her  the 
nerve  to  attempt  either  plan  bade  her  wait,  not  too  long, 
but  longer,  in  the  hope  of  a  more  favorable  moment. 

Frank  returned  to  Fresno,  and  he  carried  the  sack  of  gold 
that  had  caused  dissension.  Fresno  laughed. 

"Sandy's  plugged  hard — low  down,"  said  Frank.  "He 
can't  live.  An'  Old  Miles  is  croaked." 

"A-huh!  Frank,  I'll  go  git  the  other  packs.  An'  you 
see  what's  in  this  sack,"  said  Fresno. 

When  he  got  out  of  sight,  Allie  slipped  the  lasso  from  her 
waist. 

"I  don't  need  that  hanging  to  me,"  she  said. 

"Sure  you  don't,  sweetheart,"  replied  the  ruffian  Frank. 
"Thet  man  Fresno  is  rough  with  ladies.  Now  I'm  gentle. 
.  .  .  .Come  an'  let  me  spill  this  sack  in  your  lap." 

"I  guess  not,"  replied  Allie. 

"Wai,  you're  sure  a  cat.  .  .  .  Look  at  her  eyes!  .  .  . 
All  right,  don't  git  mad  at  me." 

He  spilled  the  contents  of  the  sack  out  on  the  sand,  and 
bent  over  it. 

What  had  made  Allie's  eyes  flash  was  the  recognition  of 
her  opportunity.  She  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  First 
she  looked  to  see  just  where  the  mustang  stood.  He  was 
near,  with  the  rope  dragging,  half  coiled.  Allie  suddenly 
noticed  the  head  and  ears  of  the  mustang.  He  heard  some 
thing.  She  looked  up  the  valley  slope  and  saw  a  file  of 
Indians  riding  down,  silhouetted  against  the  sky.  They 
were  coming  fast.  For  an  instant  Allie's  senses  reeled. 

132 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Then  she  rallied.  Her  situation  was  desperate — almost 
hopeless.  But  here  was  the  issue  of  life  or  death,  and  she 
met  it. 

In  one  bound  she  had  the  rifle.  Long  before,  she  had 
ascertained  that  it  was  loaded.  The  man  Frank  heard 
the  click  of  the  raising  hammer. 

"What  're  you  doin'?"  he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"Don't  get  up!"  warned  Allie.  She  stepped  backward 
nearer  the  mustang.  "  Look  up  the  slope !  .  .  .  Indians!" 

But  he  paid  no  heed.    He  jumped  up  and  strode  toward  her. 

"Look,  man!"  cried  Allie,  piercingly.    He  came  on. 

The  i  Fresno  appeared,  running,  white  of  face. 

Allie,  without  leveling  the  rifle,  fired  at  Frank,  even  as 
his  clutching  hands  struck  the  weapon. 

He  halted,  with  sudden  gasp,  sank  to  his  knees,  fell 
against  the  tree,  and  then  staggered  up  again. 

Allie  had  to  drop  the  rifle  to  hold  the  frightened  mustang. 
She  mounted  him,  urged  him  away,  and  hauled  in  the 
dragging  lasso.  Once  clear  of  brush  and  stones,  he  began  to 
run.  Allie  saw  a  clear  field  ahead,  but  there  were  steep 
rocky  slopes  boxing  the  valley.  She  would  be  hemmed  in. 
She  got  the  mustang  turned,  and  ran  among  the  trees, 
keeping  far  over  to  the  left.  She  heard  beating  hoofs  off 
to  the  right,  crashings  in  brush,  and  then  yells.  An  open^ 
ing  showed  the  slope  alive  with  Indians  riding  hard.  Some 
were  heading  down,  and  others  up  the  valley  to  cut  off 
her  escape;  the  majority  were  coming  straight  for  the 
clumps  of  trees. 

Fresno  burst  out  of  cover  mounted  on  Sandy's  bay  horse. 
He  began  to  shoot.  And  the  Indians  fired  in  reply.  All 
along  the  slopes  rose  white  puffs  of  smoke,  and  bullets 
clipped  dust  from  the  ground  in  front  of  Allie.  Fresno  drew 
ahead.  The  bay  horse  was  swift.  Allie  pulled  her  mustang 
more  to  the  left,  hoping  to  get  over  the  ridge,  which  on  that 
side  was  not  high.  To  her  dismay,  Indians  appeared  there, 
too.  She  wheeled  back  to  the  first  course  and  saw  that  she 
must  Attempt  what  Fresno  was  trying. 

133 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Then  the  robber  Frank  appeared,  riding  out  of  the  cedars. 
The  Indian  riders  closed  rapidly  in  on  him,  shooting  all 
the  time.  His  horse  was  hit,  and  stumbling,  it  almost 
threw  the  rider.  Then  the  horse  ran  wildly — could  not  be 
controlled.  One  Indian  was  speeding  from  among  the 
others.  He  had  a  bow  bent  double,  and  suddenly  it  straight 
ened.  Allie  saw  dust  fly  from  Frank's  back.  He  threw  up 
his  arms  and  slid  off  under  the  horse,  the  saddle  slipping 
with  him.  The  horse,  wounded  and  terrorized,  began  to 
plunge,  dragging  man  and  saddle. 

Ahead,  far  to  the  right,  Fresno  was  gaining  on  his  pur 
suers.  He  was  out  of  range  now,  but  the  Indian  kept 
shooting.  Then  Allie's  situation  became  so  perilous  that 
she  saw  only  the  Indians  to  the  left,  with  their  mustangs 
stretched  out  so  as  to  intercept  her  before  she  got  out  into 
the  wider  valley. 

Her  mustang  did  not  need  to  be  goaded.  The  yells  be 
hind  and  on  all  sides,  and  the  whistling  bullets,  drove  him 
to  his  utmost.  Allie  had  all  she  could  do  to  ride  him. 
She  was  nearly  blinded  by  the  stinging  wind,  yet  she  saw 
those  lithe,  half -naked  savages  dropping  gradually  back 
and  she  knew  that  she  was  gaining.  Her  hair  became  loose 
and  streamed  in  the  wind.  She  heard  the  yells  then.  No 
more  rifles  cracked.  Her  pursuers  had  discovered  that  she 
was  a  girl  and  were  bent  on  her  capture. 

Fleet  and  strong  the  mustang  ran,  sure-footed,  leaping 
the  washes,  and  outdistancing  the  pursuers  on  the  left. 
Allie  thought  she  could  turn  into  the  big  valley  and  go 
down  the  main  trail  before  the  Indians  chasing  Fresno  dis 
covered  her.  But  vain  hope!  Across  the  width  of  the 
valley  where  it  opened  out,  a  string  of  Indians  appeared, 
riding  back  to  meet  her. 

A  long  dust  line,  dotted  with  bobbing  objects,  to  the 
right.  Behind  a  close-packed  bunch  of  hard  riders.  In 
front  an  opening  trap  of  yelling  savages.  She  was  lost. 
And  suddenly  she  remembered  the  fate  of  her  mother. 
Her  spirit  sank,  her  strength  fled.  Everything  blurred 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

around  her.  She  lost  control  of  the  mustang.  She  felt  him 
turning,  slowing,  the  yells  burst  hideously  in  her  ears.  Like 
her  mother's — her  fate.  A  roar  of  speedy  hoof -beats  seemed 
to  envelop  her,  and  her  nostrils  were  filled  with  dust. 
They  were  upon  her.  She  prayed  for  a  swift  stroke — then 
for  her  soul.  All  darkened — her  senses  were  failing.  Neale's 
face  glimmered  there — in  space — and  again  was  lost.1 
She  was  slipping — slipping —  A  rude  and  powerful  hold 
fastened  upon  her.  Then  all  faded, 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Allie  Lee  came  back  from  that  black  gap  in 
her  consciousness  she  was  lying  in  a  circular  tent 
of  poles  and  hides. 

For  a  second  she  was  dazed.  But  the  Indian  designs 
and  trappings  in  the  tent  brought  swift  realization — she 
had  been  brought  a  captive  to  the  Sioux  encampment. 
She  raised  her  head.  She  was  lying  on  a  buffalo  robe; 
her  hands  and  feet  were  bound;  the  floor  was  littered 
with  blankets  and  beaded  buckskin  garments.  Through 
a  narrow  opening  she  saw  that  the  day  was  far  spent ;  In 
dians  and  horses  passed  to  and  fro;  there  was  a  bustle 
outside  and  jabber  of  Indian  jargon ;  the  wind  blew  hard 
and  drops  of  rain  pattered  on  the  tent. 

Allie  could  scarcely  credit  the  evidence  of  her  own 
senses.  Here  she  was  alive !  She  tried  to  see  and  feel  if 
she  had  been  hurt.  Her  arms  and  body  appeared  bruised, 
and  they  ached,  but  she  was  not  in  any  great  pain.  Her 
hopes  arose.  If  the  Sioux  meant  to  kill  her  they  would 
have  done  it  at  once.  They  might  intend  to  reserve  her 
for  torture,  but  more  likely  their  object  was  to  make  her 
a  captive  in  the  tribe.  In  that  case  Slingerland  would 
surely  find  her  and  get  her  freedom. 

Rain  began  to  fall  more  steadily.  Allie,;smelled  smoke 
and  saw  the  reflection  of  fires  on  the  wall  of  the  tent. 
Presently  a  squaw  entered.  She  was  a  huge  woman,  evi 
dently  old,  very  dark  of  face,  and  wrinkled.  She  carried 
a  bowl  and  platter  which  she  set  down,  and,  grunting, 
she  began  to  untie  Allie' s  hands.  Then  she  gave  the  girl 
a  not  ungentle  shake.  Allie  sat  up. 

136 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Do  you — do  they  mean — to  harm  and  kill  me?" 
asked  Allie. 

The  squaw  shook  her  head  to  indicate  she  did  not  under 
stand,  but  her  gestures  toward  the  things  she  had  brought 
were  easy  to  interpret.  Allie  partook  of  the  Indian  food, 
which  was  coarse  and  unpalatable,  but  it  satisfied  her 
hunger.  When  she  had  finished  the  squaw  laboriously 
tied  the  thongs  round  Allie's  wrists,  and,  pushing  her 
back  on  the  robe,  covered  her  up  and  left  her. 

After  that  it  grew  dark  rapidly,  and  the  rain  increased 
to  a  torrent.  Allie,  hardly  realizing  how  cold  she  had 
been,  began  to  warm  up  under  the  woolly  robe.  The  roar 
of  the  rain  drowned  all  other  sounds  outside.  She  won 
dered  if  Slingerland  had  returned  to  his  cabin,  and,  if  so, 
what  he  had  done.  She  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  would  take 
the  loss  hard.  But  he  would  trail  her ;  he  would  hear  of 
a  white  girl  captive  in  the  Sioux  camp  and  she  would  soon 
be  free.  How  fortunate  she  was !  A  star  of  Providence  had 
Watched  over  her.  The  prayer  she  had  breathed  had  been 
answered.  She  thought  of  Neale.  She  would  live  for  him ; 
she  would  pray  and  fight  off  harm ;  she  would  find  him  if 
he  could  not  find  her.  And  lying  there  bound  and  helpless 
in  an  Indian  camp,  captive  of  the  relentless  Sioux,  for  all 
she  knew  in  peril  of  death,  with  the  roar  of  wind  and  rain 
around  her,  and  the  darkness  like  pitch,  she  yet  felt  her 
pulses  throb  and  thrill  and  her  spirit  soar  at  remem 
brance  of  the  man  she  loved.  In  the  end  she  would  find 
Neale;  and  it  was  with  his  name  trembling  on  her  lips 
that  she  fell  asleep. 

More  than  once  during  the  night  she  awoke  in  the 
pitchy  darkness  to  hear  the  wind  blow  and  the  rain  roar. 
The  dawn  broke  cold  and  gray,  and  the  storm  gradually 
diminished.  Allie  lay  alone  for  hours,  beginning  to  suf 
fer  by  reason  of  her  bonds  and  cramped  limbs.  The  longer 
she  was  left  alone  the  more  hopeful  her  case  seemed. 

In  the  afternoon  she  was  visited  by  the  squaw,  re 
leased  and  f ed  as  before.  Allie  made  signs  that  she  wanted 
10  137 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

to  have  her  feet  free,  so  that  she  could  get  up  and  move 
sbout.  The  squaw  complied  with  her  wishes.  Allie  could 
scarcely  stand;  she  felt  dizzy;  a  burning,  aching  sensation 
filled  her  limbs. 

Presently  the  old  woman  led  her  out.  Allie  saw  a  great 
number  of  tents,  many  horses  and  squaws  and  children, 
but  few  braves.  The  encampment  lay  in  a  wide  valley, 
similar  to  all  the  valleys  of  that  country,  except  that  it 
was  larger.  A  stream  in  flood  swept  yellow  and  noisy  along 
the  edge  of  the  encampment.  The  children  ran  at  sight 
of  Allie,  and  the  women  stared.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
disapproved  of  her.  The  few  braves  looked  at  her  with  dark, 
steady,  unfathomable  eyes.  The  camp  appeared  rich  in 
color — in  horses  and  trappings;  evidently  this  tribe  was 
not  poor.  Allie  saw  utensils,  blankets,  clothing — many 
things  never  made  by  Indians. 

She  was  led  to  a  big  lodge  with  a  tent  adjoining.  Inside 
an  old  Indian  brave,  grizzled  and  shrunken,  smoked  before 
a  fire;  and  as  Allie  was  pushed  into  the  tent  a  young  Indian 
squaw  appeared.  She  was  small,  with  handsome,  scornful 
face  and  dark,  proud  eyes,  gorgeously  clad  in  elaborate 
beaded  and  fringed  buckskin — evidently  an  Indian  prin 
cess  or  a  chief's  wife.  She  threw  Allie  a  venomous  glance 
as  she  went  out.  Allie  heard  the  old  squaw's  grunting  voice, 
and  the  young  one's  quick  and  passionate  answers. 

There  was  nothing  for  Allie  to  do  but  await  develop 
ments.  She  rested,  rubbing  her  sore  wrists  and  ankles, 
thankful  she  had  been  left  unbound.  She  saw  that  she 
was  watched,  particularly  by  the  young  woman,  who  often 
walked  to  the  opening  to  glance  in.  The  interior  of  this 
tent  presented  a  contrast  to  the  other  in  which  she  had 
been  confined.  It  was  dry  and  dean,  with  floor  of  rugs 
and  blankets;  and  all  around  hung  beaded  and  painted 
and  feathered  articles,  some  for  wear,  and  others  for  what 
purpose  she  could  not  guess. 

The  afternoon  passed  without  further  incident  until  the 
dd  squaw  entered,  manifestly  to  feed  Allie,  and  tie  be* 

138 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

up  as  heretofore.  The  younger  squaw  came  in  to  watch 
the  latter  process. 

Allie  spoke  to  her  and  held  out  her  bound  hands  appeal- 
ingly.  This  elicited  no  further  response  than  an  intent 
look. 

Night  came.  Allie  lay  awake  a  good  while,  and  then 
she  fell  asleep.  Next  morning  she  was  awakened  by  an 
uproar.  Whistling  and  trampling  mustangs,  whoops  of 
braves,  the  babel  of  many  voices,  barking  of  dogs,  move 
ment,  bustle,  sound — all  attested  to  the  return  of  the 
warriors.  Allie's  heart  sank  for  a  moment;  this  would  be 
the  time  of  trial  for  her.  But  the  clamor  subsided  with 
out  any  disturbance  near  her  tent.  By  and  by  the  old 
squaw  returned  to  attend  to  her  needs.  This  time  on  the 
way  out  she  dropped  a  blanket  curtain  between  the  tent 
and  the  lodge. 

Soon  Indians  entered  the  lodge,  quite  a  number,  with 
squaws  among  them,  judging  by  their  voices.  A  harangue 
ensued,  lasting  an  hour  or  more;  it  interested  Allie,  es 
pecially  because  at  times  she  heard  and  recognized  the  quick, 
passionate  utterance  of  the  young  squaw. 

Soon  Allie's  old  attendant  shuffled  in,  lifting  the  curtain 
and  motioning  Allie  to  come  out.  Allie  went  into  the  lodge. 
An  early  sun,  shining  into  the  wide  door,  lighted  the  place 
brightly.  It  was  full  of  Indians.  In  the  center  stood  a 
striking  figure,  probably  a  chief,  tall  and  lean,  with  scars 
on  his  naked  breast.  His  face  was  bronze,  with  deep  lines, 
somber  and  bitter,  and  cruel  thin  lips,  and  eyes  that 
glittered  like  black  fire.  His  head  had  the  poise  of  an 
eagle. 

His  piercing  glance  scarcely  rested  an  instant  upon 
Allie.  He  motioned  for  her  to  be  taken  away.  Allie,  as 
she  was  led  back,  got  a  glimpse  of  the  young  squaw.  Sullen, 
with  bowed  head,  and  dark  rich  blood  thick  in  her  face, 
with  heaving  breast  and  clenched  hands,  she  presented  a 
picture  of  outraged  pride  and  jealousy. 

Probably  the  chief  had  decided  to  claim  Allie  as  his 

139 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

captive,  a  decision  which  would  be  fiercely  resented  by  the 
young  Indian  bride. 

The  camp  quieted  down  after  that.  Allie  peeped  through 
a  slit  between  the  hides  of  which  her  tent  was  constructed, 
and  she  saw  no  one  but  squaws  and  children.  The  mustangs 
appeared  worn  out.  Evidently  the  braves  and  warriors 
were  resting  after  a  hard  ride  or  fight  or  foray. 

Nothing  happened.  The  hours  dragged.  Allie  heard 
the  breathing  of  heavy  sleepers.  About  dark  she  was 
fed  again  and  bound. 

That  night  she  was  awakened  by  a  gentle  shake.  A  hand 
moved  from  her  shoulder  to  her  lips.  The  pale  moonlight 
filtered  into  the  tent.  Allie  saw  a  figure  kneeling  beside 
her  and  she  heard  a  whispered  "  'Sh-s-s-sh!"  Then  her 
hands  and  feet  were  freed.  She  divined  then  that  the 
young  squaw  had  come  to  let  her  go,  in  the  dead  of  night. 
Her  heart  throbbed  high  as  her  liberator  held  up  a  side 
of  the  tent.  Allie  crawled  out.  A  bright  moon  soared  in 
the  sky.  The  camp  was  silent.  The  young  woman  slipped 
after  her,  and  with  a  warning  gesture  to  be  silent  she  led 
Allie  away  toward  the  slope  of  the  valley.  It  was  a 
goodly  distance.  Not  a  sound  disturbed  the  peace  of  the 
beautiful  night.  The  air  was  cold  and  still.  Allie  shivered 
and  trembled.  This  was  the  most  exciting  adventure 
of  all.  She  felt  a  sudden  tenderness  and  warmth  for  this 
Indian  girl.  Once  the  squaw  halted,  with  ear  intent, 
listening.  Allie's  heart  stopped  beating.  But  no  bark  of 
dog,  no  sound  of  pursuit,  justified  alarm.  At  last  they 
reached  the  base  of  the  slope. 

The  Indian  pointed  high  toward  the  ridge-top.  She 
made  undulating  motions  of  her  hand,  as  if  to  picture  the 
topography  of  the  ridges,  and  the  valleys  between;  then 
kneeling,  she  made  a  motion  with  her  finger  on  the  ground 
that  indicated  a  winding  trail.  Whereupon  she  stealthily 
glided  away — all  without  a  spoken  word. 

Allie  was  left  alone — free — with  direction  how  to  find 

140 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

the  trail.  But  what  use  was  it  for  her  to  find  it  in  that  wil 
derness?  Still,  her  star  kept  drawing  her  spirit.  She  be 
gan  to  climb.  The  slope  was  grassy,  and  her  light  feet  left 
little  trace.  She  climbed  and  climbed  until  she  thought 
her  heart  would  burst.  Once  upon  the  summit,  she  fell  in 
the  grass  and  rested. 

Far  below  in  the  moon-blanched  valley  lay  the  white 
tents  and  the  twinkling  camp-fires.  The  bay  of  a  dog 
floated  up  to  her.  It  was  a  tranquil,  beautiful  scene.  Ris 
ing,  she  turned  her  back  upon  it,  with  a  muttered  prayer 
for  the  Indian  girl  whose  jealousy  and  generosity  had  freed 
her,  and  again  she  faced  the  ridge-top  and  the  unknown 
wilderness. 

A  wolf  mourned,  and  the  sound,  clear  and  sharp,  startled 
her.  But  remembering  Slingerland's  word  that  no  beast 
would  be  likely  to  harm  her  in  the  warm  season,  she  was 
reassured.  Soon  she  had  crossed  the  narrow  back  of  the 
ridge,  to  see  below  another  valley  like  the  one  she  had 
left,  but  without  the  tents  and  fires.  Descent  was  easy 
and  she  covered  ground  swiftly.  She  feared  lest  she  should 
come  upon  a  stream  in  flood.  Again  she  mounted  a  slope, 
zigzagging  up,  going  slowly,  reserving  her  strength,  pausing 
often  to  rest  and  to  listen,  and  keeping  a  straight  line  with 
the  star  she  had  marked.  Climbing  was  hard  work,  how 
ever  slowly  she  went,  just  as  going  down  was  a  relief  to  her 
wearied  legs. 

In  this  manner  she  climbed  four  ridges  and  crossed  three 
valleys  before  a  rest  became  imperative.  Now  dawn  was 
near,  as  was  evidenced  by  the  paling  stars  and  the  gray 
in  the  east.  It  would  be  well  for  her  to  remain  on  high 
ground  while  day  broke. 

So  she  rested,  but,  soon  cooling  off,  she  suffered  with  the 
cold.  Huddling  down  in  the  grass  against  a  stone,  and 
facing  the  east,  she  waited  for  dawn  to  break. 

The  stars  shut  their  eyes;  the  dark  blue  of  sky  turned 
gray;  a  pale  light  seemed  to  suffuse  itself  throughout  the 
east.  The  valley  lay  asleep  in  shadow,  the  ridges  awoke  in 

141 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

soft  gray  mist.  Far  down  over  the  vastness  and  openness 
of  the  plains  appeared  a  ruddy  glow.  It  warmed,  it  changed, 
it  brightened.  A  sea  of  cloudy  vapors,  serene  and  motion 
less,  changed  to  rose  and  pink;  and  a  red  curve  slid  up 
over  the  distant  horizon.  All  that  world  of  plain  and 
cloud  and  valley  and  ridge  quickened  as  with  the  soul  of 
day,  while  it  colored  with  the  fire  of  sun.  Red,  radiant, 
glorious,  the  sun  rose. 

It  was  the  dispeller  of  gloom,  the  bringer  of  hope.  Allie 
Lee,  lost  on  the  heights,  held  out  her  arms  to  the  east  and 
the  sun,  and  she  cried:  "Oh,  God!  ...  Oh,  Neale— 
Neale!" 

When  she  turned  to  look  down  into  the  valley  below 
she  saw  the  white  winding  ribbon-like  trail,  and  with  her 
eyes  she  followed  it  to  where  the  valley  opened  wide  upon 
the  plains. 

She  must  go  down  the  slope  to  the  cover  of  the  trees  and 
brush,  and  there  work  along  eastward,  ever  with  eye 
alert.  She  must  meet  with  travelers  within  a  few  days, 
or  perish  of  starvation,  or  again  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  Sioux.  Thirst  she  did  not  fear,  for  the  recent  heavy 
rain  had  left  water-holes  everywhere. 

With  action  her  spirit  lightened  and  the  numbness  of 
hands  and  feet  left  her.  Time  passed  swiftly.  The  sun 
stood  straight  overhead  before  she  realized  she  had  walked 
miles;  and  it  declined  westward  as  she  skulked  like  an 
Indian  from  tree  to  tree,  from  bush  to  bush,  along  the  first 
bench  of  the  valley  floor. 

Night  overtook  her  at  the  gateway  of  the  valley.  The 
vast  monotony  of  the  plains  opened  before  her  like  a 
gulf.  She  feared  it.  She  found  a  mound  of  earth  with  a 
wind-worn  shelf  in  its  side  and  overgrown  with  sage;  and 
into  this  she  crawled,  curled  in  the  sand  and  prayed  and 
slept. 

Next  day  she  took  up  a  position  a  few  hundred  yards 
from  the  trail  and  followed  its  course,  straining  her  eyes 

142 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  see  before  and  behind  her,  husbanding  her  strength  with 
frequent  rests,  and  drinking  from  every  pool. 

That  day,  like  its  predecessor,  passed  swiftly  by  and 
left  her  well  out  upon  the  huge,  billowy  bosom  of  the 
plains.  Again  she  sought  a  hiding-place,  but  none  offered. 
There  was  no  warmth  in  the  sand,  and  the  night  wind 
arose,  cold  and  moaning.  She  could  not  sleep.  The 
whole  empty  world  seemed  haunted.  Rustlings  of  the 
sage,  seepings  of  the  sand,  gusts  of  the  wind,  the  night,  the 
loneliness,  the  faithless  stars  and  a  treacherous  moon 
that  sank,  the  wailing  of  wolves — all  these  things  worked 
upon  her  mind  and  spirit  until  she  lost  her  courage.  She 
feared  to  shut  her  eyes  or  cover  her  face,  for  then  she  could 
not  see  the  stealthy  forms  stalking  her  out  of  the  gloom. 
She  prayed  no  more  to  her  star. 

"Oh,  God,  have  you  forsaken  me?"  she  moaned. 

How  relentless  the  grip  of  the  endless  hours !  The  black 
night  held  fast.  And  yet  when  she  had  grown  nearly  mad 
waiting  for  the  dawn,  it  finally  broke,  ruddy  and  bright, 
with  the  sun,  as  always,  a  promise  of  better  things  to  come. 

Allie  found  no  water  that  day.  She  suffered  from  the 
lack  of  it,  but  hunger  appeared  to  have  left  her.  Her 
strength  diminished,  yet  she  walked  and  plodded  miles 
on  miles,  always  gazing  both  hopelessly  and  hopefully 
along  the  winding  trail. 

At  the  close  of  the  short  and  merciful  day  despair  seized 
upon  Allie's  mind.  With  night  came  gloom  and  the  memory 
of  her  mother's  fate.  She  still  clung  to  a  strange  faith  that 
all  would  soon  be  well.  But  reason,  fact,  reality,  these 
present  things  pointed  to  certain  doom — starvation— death 
by  thirst — or  Indians!  A  thousand  times  she  imagined 
she  heard  the  fleet  hoof -beating  of  many  mustangs.  Only 
the  tiny  pats  of  the  broken  sage  leaves  in  the  wind! 

It  was  a  dark  and  cloudy  night,  warmer  and  threaten 
ing  rain.  She  kept  continually  turning  round  and  round 
to  see  what  it  was  that  came  creeping  up  behind  her  so 
stealthily.  How  horrible  was  the  dark— -  the  blackness 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

that  showed  invisible  things!  A  wolf  sent  up  his  hungry, 
lonely  cry.  She  did  not  fear  this  reality  so  much  as  she 
feared  the  intangible.  If  she  lived  through  this  night, 
there  would  be  another  like  it  to  renew  the  horror.  She 
would  rather  not  live.  Like  a  creature  beset  by  foes  all 
around  she  watched;  she  faced  every  little  sound;  she  peered 
into  the  darkness,  instinctively  unable  to  give  up,  to  end 
the  struggle,  to  lie  down  and  die. 

Neale  seemed  to  be  with  her.  He  was  alive.  He  was 
thinking  of  her  at  that  very  moment.  He  would  expect 
her  to  overcome  self  and  accident  and  calamity.  He 
spoke  to  her  out  of  the  distance  and  his  voice  had  the  old 
power,  stronger  than  fear,  exhaustion,  hopelessness,  in 
sanity.  He  could  call  her  back  from  the  grave. 

And  so  the  night  passed. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  sun  lit  the  level  land,  far 
Auwn  the  trail  westward  gleamed  a  long  white  line  of 
moving  wagons. 

Allie  uttered  a  wild  and  broken  cry,  in  which  al}  the 
torture  shuddered  out  of  her  heart.  Again  she  was  saved! 
That  black  doubt  was  shame  to  her  spirit.  She  prayed  her 
thanksgiving,  and  vowed  in  her  prayers  that  no  adversity, 
however  cruel,  could  ever  again  shake  her  faith  or  conquer 
her  spirit. 

She  was  going  on  to  meet  Neale.  Life  was  suddenly 
sweet  again,  unutterably  full,  blazing  like  the  sunrise.  He 
was  there — somewhere  to  the  eastward. 

She  waited.  The  caravan  was  miles  away.  But  it 
was  no  mirage,  no  trick  of  the  wide  plain!  She  watched. 
If  the  hours  of  night  had  been  long,  what  were  these  hours 
of  day  with  life  and  the  chance  of  happiness  ever  ad 
vancing  ? 

At  last  she  saw  the  scouts  riding  in  front  and  alongside, 
and  the  plodding  oxen.  It  was  a  large  caravan,  well 
equipped  for  defense. 

She  left  the  little  rise  of  ground  and  made  for  the  trail, 

144 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

How  uneven  the  walking!  She  staggered.  Her  legs  were 
weak.  But  she  gained  the  trail  and  stood  there.  She 
waved.  They  were  not  so  far  away.  Surely  she  would  be 
seen.  She  staggered  on — waved  again. 

There!  The  leading  scout  had  halted.  He  pointed. 
Other  riders  crowded  around  him.  The  caravan  came  to  a 
stop. 

Allie  heard  voices.  She  waved  her  arms  and  tried  to 
run.  A  scout  dismounted,  advanced  to  meet  her,  rifle 
ready.  The  caravan  feared  a  Sioux  trick.  Allie  descried  a 
lean,  gray  old  man;  now  he  was  rapidly  striding  toward 
her. 

"It's  a  white  gal!"  she  heard  him  shout. 

Others  ran  forward  as  she  staggered  to  meet  them. 

"I'm  alone— I'm— 1  -t!"  she  faltered. 

"A  white  gal  in  Injun  dress,"  said  another. 

And  then  kind  hands  were  outstretched  to  her. 

"I'm — running — away.   .    .    .  Indians!"  panted  Allie. 

"Whar?"  asked  the  lean  old  scout. 

"Over  the  ridges — miles — twenty  miles — more.  They 
had  me.  I  got — away  .  .  .  four — three  days  ago." 

The  group  around  Allie  opened  to  admit  another  man. 

"Who's  this — who's  this?"  called  a  quick  voice,  soft  and 
liquid,  yet  with  a  quality  of  steel  in  it. 

Allie  had  heard  that  voice.  She  saw  a  tall  man  in  long 
black  coat  and  wide  black  hat  and  flowered  vest  and  flowing 
tie.  Her  heart  contracted. 

"Allie!"  rang  the  voice. 

She  looked  up  to  see  a  dark,  handsome  face — a  Spanish 
face  with  almond  eyes,  sloe-black  and  magnetic — a  face 
that  suddenly  blazed. 

She  recognized  the  man  with  whom  her  mother  had  run 
away — the  man  she  had  long  believed  her  father — the 
adventurer  Durade!  Then  she  fainted. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AXIE  recovered  to  find  herself  lying  in  a  canvas- 
covered  wagon,  and  being  worked  over  by  several 
sympathetic  women. 

She  did  not  see  Durade.  But  she  knew  she  had  not  been 
mistaken.  The  wagon  was  rolling  along  as  fast  as  oxen 
could  travel.  Evidently  the  caravan  had  been  alarmed  by 
,the  proximity  of  Sioux  and  was  making  as  much  prog- 
iress  as  possible. 

Allie  did  not  answer  many  questions.  She  drank  thirstily, 
but  she  was  too  exhausted  to  eat. 

"Whose  caravan?"  was  the  only  query  she  made. 

"Durade's,"  replied  one  woman,  and  it  was  evident 
from  the  way  she  spoke  that  this  was  a  man  of  consequence. 

As  Allie  lay  there,  slowly  succumbing  to  weariness  and 
drowsiness,  she  thought  of  the  irony  of  fate  that  had 
let  her  escape  the  Sioux  only  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
Durade.  Still,  there  was  hope.  Durade  was  traveling 
toward  the  east.  Out  there  somewhere  he  would  meet 
Neale,  and  then  blood  would  be  spilled.  She  had  always 
regarded  Durade  strangely,  wondering  that  in  spite  of  his 
kindness  to  her  she  could  not  really  care  for  him.  She 
understood  now  and  hated  him  passionately.  And  if  there 
was  any  one  she  feared  it  was  Durade.  Allie  lost  her 
self  in  the  past,  seeing  the  stream  of  mixed  humanity  that 
passed  through  Durade's  gambling-halls.  No  doubt  he 
was  on  his  way,  first  to  search  for  her  mother,  and  secondly, 
to  profit  by  the  building  of  the  railroad.  But  he  would 
never  find  her  mother.  Allie  was  glad. 

At  length  she  fell  asleep  and  slept  long,  then  dozed  at 

146 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

intervals.  The  caravan  halted.  Allie  heard  the  familiar 
singsong  calls  to  the  oxen.  Soon  all  was  bustle  about  her, 
and  this  fully  awakened  her.  In  a  moment  or  more  she 
must  expect  to  be  face  to  face  with  Durade.  What  should 
she  tell  him?  How  much  should  she  let  him  know?  Not 
one  word  about  her  mother!  He  would  be  less  afraid  of  her 
if  he  found  out  that  the  mother  was  dead.  Durade  had 
always  feared  Allie's  mother. 

The  women  with  whom  Allie  had  ridden  helped  her 
out  of  the  wagon,  and,  finding  her  too  weak  to  stand,  they 
made  a  bed  for  her  on  the  ground.  The  camp  site  ap 
peared  to  be  just  the  same  as  any  other  part  of  that  mo 
notonous  plain-land,  but  evidently  there  was  a  stream 
or  water-hole  near  by.  Allie  saw  her  companions  were 
the  only  women  in  the  caravan;  they  were  plain  persons, 
blunt,  yet  kind,  used  to  hard,  honest  work,  and  probably 
wives  of  defenders  of  the  wagon-train. 

They  could  /lot  conceal  their  curiosity  in  regard  to 
Allie,  nor  their  wonder.  She  had  heard  them  whispering 
together  whenever  they  came  near. 

Presently  Allie  saw  Durade.  He  was  approaching. 
How  well  she  remembered  him !  Yet  the  lapse  of  time  and 
the  change  between  her  childhood  and  the  present  seemed 
incalculable.  He  spoke  to  the  women,  motioning  in  her 
direction.  His  bearing  and  action  were  that  of  a  man  of 
education,  and  a  gentleman.  Yet  he  looked  what  her 
mother  had  called  him — a  broken  man  of  class,  an  ad 
venturer,  a  victim  of  base  passions. 

He  came  and  knelt  by  Allie.  "How  are  you  now?"  he 
asked.  His  voice  was  gentle  and  courteous,  different 
from  that  of  the  other  men. 

"I  can't  stand  up,"  replied  Allie. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"No — only  worn  out." 

"You  escaped  from  Indians?" 

"Yes — a  tribe  of  Sioux.  They  intended  to  keep  me  cap* 
tive.  But  a  young  squaw  freed  me — led  me  off." 

147 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  paused  as  if  it  was  an  effort  to  speak,  and  a  long,  thin, 
shapely  hand  went  to  his  throat.  "Your  mother?"  he 
asked,  hoarsely.  Suddenly  his  face  had  turned  white. 

Allie  gazed  straight  into  his  eyes,  with  wonder,  pain, 
suspicion.  "My  mother!  I've  not  seen  her  for  nearly 
two  years." 

"My  God!  What  happened?  You  lost  her?  You  be 
came  separated?  .  .  .  Indians — bandits?  .  .  .  Tell  me!" 

"I  have — no — more  to  tell, ' '  said  Allie.  His  pain  revived 
her  own.  She  pitied  Durade.  He  had  changed — aged- 
there  were  lines  in  his  face  that  were  new  to  her. 

"I  spent  a  year  in  and  around  Ogden,  searching," 
went  on  Durade.  "Tell  me — more." 

"No!"  cried  Allie. 

"Do  you  know,  then?"  he  asked,  very  low. 

"I'm  not  your  daughter — and  mother  ran  off  from  you. 
Yes,  I  know  that,"  replied  Allie,  bitterly. 

"But  I  brought  you  up — took  care  of  you — helped  edu 
cate  you,"  protested  Durade,  with  agitation.  "You  were 
my  own  child,  I  thought.  I  was  always  kind  to  you.  I — 
I  loved  the  mother  in  the  daughter." 

"Yes,  I  know.  .  .  .  But  you  were  wicked." 

"If  you  won't  tell  me  it  must  mean  she's  still  alive," 
he  replied,  swiftly.  "She's  not  dead!  .  .  .  I'll  find  her. 
I'll  make  her  come  back  to  me — or  kill  her.  .  .  .  After  all 
these  years — to  leave  me!" 

He  seemed  wrestling  with  mingled  emotions.  The  man 
was  proud  and  strong,  but  defeat  in  life,  in  the  crowning 
passion  of  life,  showed  in  his  white  face.  The  evil  in  him 
was  not  manifest  then. 

"Where  have  you  lived  all  this  time  ?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"Back  in  the  hills  with  a  trapper." 

"You  have  grown.  When  I  saw  you  I  thought  it  was 
the  ghost  of  your  mother.  You  are  just  as  she  was  when 
we  met." 

He  seemed  lost  in  sad  retrospection.  Allie  saw  streak? 
of  gray  in  his  once  jet-black  hair. 

148 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"What  will  you  do?"  asked  Allie. 

He  was  startled.  The  softness  left  him.  A  blaze 
seemed  to  leap  under  skin  and  eyes,  and  suddenly  he  was 
different — he  was  Durade  the  gambler,  instinct  with  the 
lust  of  gold  and  life. 

"Your  mother  left  me  for  you"  he  said,  with  terrible 
bitterness.  "And  the  game  has  played  you  into  my 
hands.  I'll  keep  you.  I'll  hold  you  to  get  even  with 
her." 

Allie  felt  stir  in  her  the  fear  she  had  had  of  him  in  her 
childhood  when  she  disobeyed.  "But  you  can't  keep  me 
against  my  will — not  among  people  we'll  meet  eastward." 

"I  can,  and  I  will!"  he  declared,  softly,  but  implacably. 
"We're  not  going  East.  We'll  be  in  rougher  places  than 
the  gold-camps  of  California.  There's  no  law  but  gold 
and  guns  out  here.  .  .  .  But — if  you  speak  of  me  to  any 
one  may  your  God  have  mercy  on  you!" 

The  blaze  of  him  betrayed  the  Spaniard.  He  meant 
more  than  dishonor,  torture,  and  death.  The  evil  in  him 
was  rampant.  The  love  that  had  been  the  only  good  in  an 
abnormal  and  disordered  mind  had  turned  to  hate. 

Allie  knew  him.  He  was  the  first  person  who  had  ever 
dominated  her  through  sheer  force  of  will.  Unless  she 
abided  by  his  command  her  fate  would  be  worse  than  if 
she  had  stayed  captive  among  the  Sioux.  This  man  was 
not  an  American.  His  years  among  men  of  later  mold 
had  not  changed  the  Old  World  cruelty  of  his  nature.  She 
recognized  the  fact  in  utter  despair.  She  had  not  strength 
left  to  keep  her  eyes  open. 

After  a  while  Allie  grew  conscious  that  Durade  had  left 
her.  She  felt  like  a  creature  that  had  been  fascinated  by 
a  deadly  snake  and  then  left  to  itself;  in  the  mean  time 
she  could  do  nothing  but  wait.  Shudderingly,  mournfully, 
she  resigned  herself  to  the  feeling  that  she  must  stay  under 
Durade's  control  until  a  dominance  stronger  than  his  should 
release  her.  Neale  seemed  suddenly  to  have  retreated  far 
into  the  past,  to  have  gone  out  of  the  realm  of  her  con- 

149 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

sciousness.  And  yet  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  sight 
of  his  face,  would  make  instantly  that  spirit  of  hers — his 
spirit — to  leap  like  a  tigress  in  her  defense.  But  where 
was  Neale?  The  habits  of  life  were  all-powerful;  and  alL 
her  habits  had  been  formed  under  Durade's  magnetic  eye. 
Neale  retreated  and  so  did  spirit,  courage,  hope.  Love 
remained,  despairing,  yet  unquenchable. 

Allie's  resignation  established  a  return  to  normal  feelings. 
She  ate  and  grew  stronger;  she  slept  and  was  refreshed. 

The  caravan  moved  on  about  twenty-five  miles  a  day. 
At  the  next  camp  Allie  tried  walking  again,  to  find  her 
feet  were  bruised,  her  legs  cramped,  and  action  awkward 
and  painful.  But  she  persevered,  and  the  tingling  of  re 
vived  circulation  was  like  needles  pricking  her  flesh.  She 
limped  from  one  camp-fire  to  another;  and  all  the  rough 
men  had  a  kind  word  or  question  or  glance  for  her.  Allie 
did  not  believe  they  were  all  honest  men.  Durade  had  em 
ployed  a  large  force,  and  apparently  he  had  taken  on  every 
one  who  applied.  Miners,  hunters,  scouts,  and  men  of 
no  hall-mark  except  that  of  wildness  composed  the  mixed 
caravan.  It  spoke  much  for  Durade  that  they  were  under 
control.  Allie  well  remembered  hearing  her  mother  say 
that  he  had  a  genius  for  drawing  men  to  him  and  man 
aging  them. 

Once  during  her  walk,  when  every  one  appeared  busy, 
a  big  fellow  with  hulking  shoulders  and  bandaged  head 
stepped  beside  her. 

"Girl,"  he  whispered,  "if  you  want  a  knife  slipped  into 
Durade,  tell  him  about  me!" 

Allie  recognized  the  whisper  before  she  did  the  heated, 
red  face  with  its  crooked  nose  and  bold  eyes  and  ugly 
mouth.  Fresno!  He  must  have  escaped  from  the  Sioux 
and  fallen  in  with  Durade. 

Allie  shrunk  from  him.  Durade,  compared  with  this  kind 
of  ruffian,  was  a  haven  of  refuge.  She  passed  on  without 
a  sign.  But  Fresno  was  safe  from  her.  This  meeting 
made  her  aware  of  an  impulse  to  run  back  to  Durade. 

150 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

instinctively,  just  as  she  had  when  a  child.  He  had 
ruined  her  mother;  he  had  meant  to  make  a  lure  of  her, 
the  daughter;  he  had  showed  what  his  vengeance  would 
be  upon  that  mother,  just  as  he  had  showed  Allie  her  doom 
should  she  betray  him.  But  notwithstanding  all  this, 
Durade  was  not  Fresno,  nor  like  any  of  those  men  whose 
eyes  seemed  to  burn  her. 

She  returned  to  the  wagon  and  to  the  several  women 
and  men  attached  to  it,  with  the  assurance  that  there 
were  at  least  some  good  persons  in  that  motley  caravan 
crew. 

The  women,  naturally  curious  and  sympathetic,  ques 
tioned  her  in  one  way  and  another.  Who  was  she,  what 
had  happened  to  her,  where  were  her  people  or  friends? 
How  had  she  ever  escaped  robbers  and  Indians  in  that 
awful  country?  Was  she  really  Durade's  daughter? 

Allie  did  not  tell  much  about  herself,  and  finally  she 
was  left  in  peace. 

The  lean  old  scout  who  had  first  seen  Allie  as  she  stag 
gered  into  the  trail  told  her  it  was  over  a  hundred  miles 
to  the  first  camp  of  the  railroad-builders. 

"Down-hill  all  the  way,"  he  concluded.  "An'  we'll 
make  it  in  a  jiffy." 

Nevertheless,  it  took  nearly  all  of  four  days  to  sight  the 
camp  of  the  graders — the  advance-guard  of  the  great 
construction  work. 

In  those  four  days  Allie  had  recovered  her  bloom,  ner 
health,  her  strength — everything  except  the  wonderful 
assurance  which  had  been  hers.  Durade  had  spoken  daily 
with  her,  and  had  been  kind,  watchful,  like  a  guardian. 

It  was  with  a  curious  thrill  that  Allie  gazed  around  as 
she  rode  into  the  construction  camp — horses  and  men  and 
implements  all  following  the  line  of  Neale's  work.  Could 
Neale  be  there?  If  so,  how  dead  was  her  heart  to  his 
nearness? 

The  tents  of  the  workers,  some  new  and  white,  others 
soiled  and  ragged,  stretched  everywhere;  large  tents  belched 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

smoke  and  resounded  with  the  ring  of  hammers  on  anvil; 
soldiers  stood  on  guard;  men,  red-shirted  and  blue-shirted, 
swarmed  as  thick  as  ants;  in  a  wide  hollow  a  long  line  of 
horses,  in  double  row,  heads  together,  pulled  hay  from  a 
rack  as  long  as  the  line,  and  they  pulled  and  snorted  and 
bit  at  one  another;  a  strong  smell  of  hay  and  burning  wood 
mingled  with  the  odor  of  hot  coffee  and  steaming  beans; 
fires  blazed  on  all  sides;  under  another  huge  tent,  or  many 
tents  without  walls,  stretched  wooden  tables  and  benches; 
on  the  scant  sage  and  rocks  and  brush,  and  everywhere 
upon  the  tents,  lay  in  a  myriad  of  colors  and  varieties  the 
lately  washed  clothes  of  the  toilers;  and  through  the  wide 
street  of  the  camp  clattered  teams  and  swearing  teamsters, 
dragging  plows  with  clanking  chains  and  huge  scoops 
turned  upside  down.  Bordering  the  camp,  running  east 
as  far  as  eye  could  see,  stretched  a  high,  flat,  yellow  lane, 
with  the  earth  hollowed  away  from  it,  so  that  it  stood 
higher  than  the  level  plain — and  this  was  the  work  of  the 
graders,  the  road-bed  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  the 
U.  ,P.  Trail. 

This  camp  appeared  to  be  Durade's  destination.  His 
caravan  rode  through  and  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
far  side.  Preparations  began  for  what  Allie  concluded 
was  to  be  a  permanent  halt.  At  once  began  a  significant 
disintegration  of  Durade's  party.  One  by  one  the  scouts 
received  payment  from  their  employer,  and  with  horse 
and  pack  disappeared  toward  the  camp.  The  lean  old 
fellow  who  had  taken  kindly  interest  in  Allie  looked  in  at 
the  opening  of  the  canvas  over  her  wagon,  and,  wishing  her 
luck,  bade  her  good-by.  The  women  likewise  said  good- 
by,  informing  her  that  they  were  going  on  home.  Not  one 
man  among  those  left  would  Allie  have  trusted. 

During  the  hurried  settling  of  camp  Durade  came  to 
Allie. 

"Allie,"  he  said,  "you  don't  have  to  keep  cooped  up  in 
there  unless  I  tell  you.  But  don't  talk  to  any  one — and 
don't  go  that  way." 

152 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  pointed  toward  the  humming  camp.  "That  place 
beats  any  gold-diggings  I  ever  saw,"  he  concluded. 

The  tall,  scant  sage  afforded  Allie  some  little  seclusion, 
and  she  walked  there  until  Durade  called  her  to  supper. 
She  ate  alone  on  a  wagon-seat,  and  when  twilight  fell  she 
climbed  into  her  wagon,  grateful  that  it  was  high  off  the 
ground  and  so  inclosed  her  from  all  except  sound. 

Darkness  came;  the  fire  died  down;  the  low  voices  of 
Durade  and  his  men,  and  of  callers  who  visited  them, 
flowed  continuously. 

Then,  presently,  there  arose  a  strange  murmur,  unlike 
any  sound  Allie  had  ever  heard.  It  swelled  into  a  low, 
distant  roar.  She  was  curious  about  it.  Peeping  out  of 
her  wagon-cover  she  saw  where  the  darkness  flared  to 
yellow  with  a  line  of  lights — torches  or  lanterns  or  fires. 
Crossing  and  recrossing  these  lights  were  black  objects, 
in  twos  and  threes  and  dozens.  And  from  this  direction 
floated  the  strange,  low  roar.  Suddenly  she  realized.  It 
was  the  life  of  the  camp.  Hundreds  and  thousands  of 
men  were  there  together,  and  as  the  night  advanced  the 
low  roar  rose  and  fell,  and  lulled  away  to  come  again — 
strange,  sad,  hideous,  mirthful.  For  a  long  time  Allie 
could  not  sleep. 

Next  morning  Durade  called  her.  When  she  unlaced  the 
canvas  flaps,  it  was  to  see  the  sun  high  and  to  hear  the 
bustle  of  work  all  about  her. 

Durade  brought  her  breakfast  and  gave  her  instructions. 
While  he  was  about  in  the  daytime  she  might  come  out  and 
do  what  she  could  to  amuse  herself;  but  when  he  was 
absent  or  at  night  she  must  be  in  her  wagon-tent,  laced  in, 
and  she  was  not  to  answer  any  call.  She  would  be  guarded 
by  Stitt,  one  of  his  men,  a  deaf  mute,  faithful  to  his  in 
terests,  and  who  had  orders  to  handle  her  roughly  should 
she  disobey.  Allie  would  not  have  been  inclined  to  mutiny, 
even  without  the  fear  and  abhorrence  she  felt  of  this  ugly 
and  deformed  mute. 

That  day  Durade  caused  to  be  erected  tents,  canopies, 
11  iS3 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

tables,  benches,  and  last  a  larger  tent,  into  which  the  tables 
and  benches  were  carried.  Fresno  worked  hard,  as  did  all 
the  men  except  Stitt,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  watch 
Allie's  wagon. 

Wearily  the  time  passed  for  her.  How  many  days  must 
she  spend  thus,  watching  idly,  because  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do?  Still,  back  in  her  consciousness  there  was  a 
vague  and  growing  thought.  Sooner  or  later  Neale  would 
appear  in  the  flesh,  as  he  now  came  to  her  in  her  dreams. 

That  night  Allie,  peeping  out,  saw  by  the  fire  and  torch 
light  a  multitude  of  men  drawn  to  Durade's  large  tent. 
Mexicans,  negroes,  Irishmen — all  kinds  of  men  passed, 
loud  and  profane,  careless  and  reckless,  quarrelsome  and 
loquacious.  Soon  there  arose  in  her  ears  the  long-forgotten 
but  now  familiar  sounds  of  a  gambling-hell  in  full  blast. 
The  rolling  rattle  of  the  wheel,  sharp,  strident,  and  keen, 
intermingled  with  the  strange  rich  false  clink  of  gold. 

It  needed  only  a  few  days  and  nights  for  Allie  Lee  to 
divine  Durade's  retrogression.  Before  this  he  had  been  a 
gambler  for  the  sake  of  gambling,  even  a  sportsman  in  his 
evil  way;  now  he  seemed  possessed  of  an  unscrupulous 
intent,  a  strange,  cold,  devouring  passion  to  get  gold  and 
more  gold — always  more  gold.  Allie  divined  evidence  of 
this,  saw  it,  heard  it.  The  man  had  struck  the  descent, 
and  he  was  all  the  more  dangerous  for  his  lapse  from  his 
former  standards,  poor  as  they  had  been. 

Not  a  week  had  elapsed  before  the  gambling-hell  roared 
all  night.  Allie  got  most  of  her  sleep  during  the  day. 
She  tried  to  shut  out  what  sound  she  could,  and  tried 
to  be  deaf  to  the  rest.  But  she  had  to  hear  the  angry 
bawls,  pistol-shots,  and  shrill  cries;  yes,  and  the  trample 
of  heavy  boots  as  men  dragged  a  dead  gamester  out  to 
the  ditch. 

Day  was  a  relief,  a  blessing.  Allie  was  frequently  cooped 
up  in  her  narrow  canvas-covered  wagon,  but  she  saw  from 
there  the  life  of  the  grading  camp. 

There  were  various  bosses — the  boarding  boss,  who  fed 

154 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

the  laborers;  the  stable  boss,  who  had  charge  of  the  teams; 
the  grading  boss,  who  ruled  the  diggers  and  scrapers;  and 
the  time-keeper  boss,  who  kept  track  of  the  work  of  all. 

In  the  early  morning  a  horde  of  hungry  men  stampeded 
the  boarding-tents  where  the  cooks  and  waiters  made  mad 
haste  to  satisfy  loud  and  merry  demands.  At  sunset  the 
same  horde  dropped  in,  dirty  and  hot  and  lame,  and  fought 
for  seats  while  others  waited  for  their  turn. 

Out  on  the  level  plain  stretched  the  hundreds  of  teams, 
'moving  on  and  returning,  the  drivers  shouting,  the  horses 
bending.  The  hot  sun  glared,  the  wind  whipped  up  the 
dust,  the  laborers  speeded  up  to  the  shout  of  the  boss. 
And  ever  westward  crept  the  low,  level,  yellow  bank  of  sand 
and  gravel — the  road-bed  of  the  first  transcontinental  rail 
way. 

Thus  the  daytime  had  its  turmoil,  too,  but  this  last  was 
splendid,  like  the  toil  of  heroes  united  to  gain  some  common 
/end.  And  the  army  of  soldiers  waited,  ever  keen-eyed,  for 
the  skulking  Sioux. 

Mull,  the  boss  of  the  camp,  became  a  friend  of  Durade's. 
The  wily  Spaniard  could  draw  to  him  any  class  of  men. 
This  Mull  had  been  a  driver  of  truck-horses  in  New  York, 
and  now  he  was  a  driver  of  men. 

He  was  huge,  like  a  bull,  heavy-lipped  and  red-cheeked, 
hairy  and  coarse,  with  big  sunken  eyes.  A  brute — a  cave 
man.  He  drank;  he  gambled.  He  was  at  once  a  bully 
and  a  pirate.  Responsible  to  no  one  but  his  contractor,  he 
hated  the  contractor  and  he  hated  his  job.  He  was  great 
in  his  place,  brutal  with  fist  and  foot,  a  gleaner  of  results 
from  hard  men  at  a  hard  time. 

He  won  gold  from  Durade,  or,  as  Fresno  guffawed  to  a 
comrade,  he  had  been  allowed  to  win  it.  Durade  picked 
his  man.  He  had  big  schemes  and  he  needed  Mull. 

Benton  was  Durade's  objective  point — Benton,  the 
great  and  growing  camp-city,  where  gold  and  blood  were 
spilled  in  the  dusty  streets  and  life  roared  like  a  blast  from 
hell. 

155 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIr, 

All  that  Allie  heard  of  Benton  increased  her  dread,  and 
at  last  she  determined  that  she  would  run  any  risk  rather 
than  be  taken  there.  And  so  one  night,  as  soon  as  it  grew 
dark,  she  slipped  out  of  the  wagon  and,  under  cover  of 
darkness,  made  her  escape. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  building  of  the  U.  P.  R.  as  it  advanced  westward 
caused  many  camps  and  towns  to  spring  up  and 
flourish,  like  mushrooms,  in  a  single  night;  and  trains 
were  run  as  far  as  the  rails  were  laid. 

Therefore  strange  towns  and  communities  were  born, 
like  to  nothing  that  the  world  had  ever  seen  before. 

Warren  Neale  could  not  get  away  from  the  fascination 
of  the  work  and  life,  even  though  he  had  lost  all  his  am 
bition  and  was  now  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  en 
gineer,  insignificant  and  idle.  He  began  to  drink  and 
gamble  in  North  Platte,  more  in  a  bitter  defiance  to  fate 
than  from  any  real  desire;  then  with  Larry  King  he  drifted 
out  to  Kearney. 

At  Kearney,  Larry  got  into  trouble — characteristic 
trouble.  In  a  quarrel  with  a  construction  boss  named 
Smith,  Larry  accused  Smith  of  being  the  crooked  tool  of 
the  crooked  commissioners  who  had  forced  Neale  to  quit 
his  job.  Smith  grew  hot  and  profane.  The  cowboy  prompt 
ly  slapped  his  face.  Then  Smith,  like  the  fool  he  was, 
went  after  his  gun.  He  never  got  it  out. 

It  distressed  Neale  greatly  that  Larry  had  shot  up  a 
man — and  a  railroad  man  at  that.  No  matter  what  Larry 
said,  Neale  knew  the  shooting  was  on  his  account.  This 
deed  made  the  cowboy  a  marked  man.  It  changed  him, 
also,  toward  Neale,  inasmuch  as  that  he  saw  his  wildness 
was  making  small  Neale's  chances  of  returning  to  work. 
Larry  never  ceased  importuning  Neale  to  go  back  to  his 
job.  After  shooting  Smith  the  cowboy  made  one  more 
eloquent  appeal  to  Neale  and  then  left  for  Cheyenne. 
Neale  followed  him. 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Cheyenne  was  just  sobering  up  after  its  brief  and  tem 
pestuous  reign  as  headquarters  town,  and  though  de 
pleted  and  thin,  it  was  now  making  a  bid  for  permanency. 
But  the  sting  and  wildness  of  life  had  departed  with  the 
construction  operations,  and  now  Benton  had  become  the 
hub  of  the  railway  universe. 

Neale  boarded  a  train  for  Benton  and  watched  with 
bitterness  the  familiar  landmarks  he  had  learned  to  know 
so  well  while  surveying  the  line.  He  was  no  longer  con 
nected  with  the  great  project — no  more  a  necessary  part 
of  the  great  movement. 

Beyond  Medicine  Bow  the  grass  and  the  green  failed 
and  the  immense  train  of  freight-cars  and  passenger-coaches, 
loaded  to  capacity,  clattered  on  into  arid  country.  Gray 
and  red,  the  drab  and  fiery  colors  of  the  desert  lent  the 
ridges  character — forbidding  and  barren. 

From  a  car  window  Neale  got  his  first  glimpse  of  the 
wonderful  terminus  city, and  for  once  his  old  thrills  returned. 
He  recalled  the  distance — seven  hundred — no,  six  hundred 
and  ninety-eight  miles  from  Omaha.  So  far  westward  was 
Benton. 

It  lay  in  the  heart  of  barrenness,  alkali,  and  desola 
tion,  on  the  face  of  the  windy  desert,  alive  with  dust- 
devils,  sweeping  along,  yellow  and  funnel-shaped — a  huge 
blocked-out  town,  and  set  where  no  town  could  ever  live. 
Benton  was  prey  for  sun,  wind,  dust,  drought,  and  the 
wind  was  terribly  and  insupportably  cold.  No  sage,  no 
cedars,  no  grass,  not  even  a  cactus-bush,  nothing  green  or 
living  to  relieve  the  eye,  which  swept  across  the  gray  and 
the  white,  through  the  dust,  to  the  distant  bare  and  deso 
late  hills  of  drab. 

The  hell  that  was  reported  to  abide  at  Benton  was  in 
harmony  with  its  setting. 

The  immense  train  clattered  and  jolted  to  a  stop.  A  roar 
of  wind,  a  cloud  of  powdery  dust,  a  discordant  and  unceas 
ing  din  of  voices,  came  through  the  open  windows  of  the 
car.  The  heterogeneous  mass  of  humanity  with  which 

158 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Neale  had  traveled  jostled  out.  struggling  with  packs 
and  bags. 

Neale,  carrying  his  bag,  stepped  off  into  half  a  foot  of 
dust.  He  saw  a  disintegrated  crowd  of  travelers  that  had 
just  arrived,  and  of  travelers  ready  to  depart — soldiers, 
Indians,  Mexicans,  negroes,  loafers,  merchants,  trades 
men,  laborers,  an  ever-changing  and  ever-remarkable 
spectacle  of  humanity.  He  saw  stage-coaches  with  hawkers 
bawling  for  passengers  bound  to  Salt  Lake,  Ogden,  Mon 
tana,  Idaho;  he  saw  a  wide  white  street — white  with 
dust  where  it  was  not  thronged  with  moving  men  and 
women,  and  lined  by  tents  and  canvas  houses  and  clap 
board  structures,  together  with  the  strangest  conglomera 
tion  of  painted  and  printed  signs  that  ever  advertised 
anything  in  the  world. 

A  woman,  well  clad,  young,  not  uncomely,  but  with 
hungry  eyes  like  those  of  a  hawk,  accosted  Neale.  He  drew 
away.  In  the  din  he  had  not  heard  what  she  said.  A  boy 
likewise  spoke  to  him ;  a  greaser  tried  to  take  his  luggage ; 
a  man  jostling  him  felt  of  his  pocket ;  and  as  Neale  walked 
on  he  was  leered  at,  importuned,  jolted,  accosted,  and 
all  but  mobbed. 

So  this  was  Benton. 

A  pistol-shot  pierced  the  din.  Some  one  shouted.  A 
wave  of  the  crowd  indicated  commotion  somewhere; 
and  then  the  action  and  noise  went  on  precisely  as  before. 
Neale  crossed  five  intersecting  streets;  evidently  the 
wide  street  he  was  on  must  be  the  main  one. 

In  that  walk  of  five  blocks  he  saw  thousands  of  persons, 
but  they  were  not  the  soldiers  who  protected  the  line, 
nor  the  laborers  who  made  the  road.  These  were  the 
travelers,  the  business  people,  the  stragglers,  the  nonde 
scripts,  the  parasites,  the  criminals,  the  desperadoes,  and 
the  idlers — all  who  must  by  hook  or  crook  live  off  the 
builders. 

Neale  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  exhilaration.  The  spirit 
was  still  in  him.  After  all,  his  defeated  ambition  counted 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

for  nothing  in  the  great  sum  of  this  work.  How  many  had 
failed !  He  thought  of  the  nameless  graves  already  dotting 
the  slopes  along  the  line  and  already  forgotten.  It  would  be 
something  to  live  through  the  heyday  of  Benton. 

Under  a  sign,  "  Hotel,"  he  entered  a  door  in  a  clapboard 
house.  The  place  was  as  crude  as  an  unfinished  barn. 
Paying  in  advance  for  lodgings,  he  went  to  the  room 
shown  him — a  stall  with  a  door  and  a  bar,  a  cot  and  a 
bench,  a  bowl  and  a  pitcher.  Through  cracks  he  could  see 
out  over  an  uneven  stretch  of  tents  and  houses.  Toward 
the  edge  of  town  stood  a  long  string  of  small  tents  and 
several  huge  ones,  which  might  have  been  the  soldiers' 
quarters. 

Neale  went  out  in  search  of  a  meal  and  entered  the 
first  restaurant.  It  was  merely  a  canvas  house  stretched 
over  poles,  with  compartments  at  the  back.  High  wooden 
benches  served  as  tables,  low  benches  as  seats.  The  floor 
was  sand.  At  one  table  sat  a  Mexican,  an  Irishman, 
and  a  negro.  The  Irishman  was  drunk.  The  negro  came 
to  wait  on  Neale,  and,  receiving  an  order,  went  to  the 
kitchen.  The  Irishman  sidled  over  to  Neale. 

"Say,  did  yez  hear  about  Casey?"  he  inquired,  in  very 
friendly  fashion. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  replied  Neale.  He  remembered  Casey, 
the  flagman,  but  probably  there  were  many  Caseys  in  that 
camp. 

"There  wus  a  f eight,  out  on  the  line,  yisteddy,"  went 
on  the  fellow,  "an'  the  dom'  redskins  chased  the  gang  to 
the  troop-train.  Phwat  do  you  think?  A  bullet  knocked 
Casey's  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  as  he  wus  runnin',  an' 
b'gorra,  Casey  sthopped  fer  it  an'  wus  all  shot  up." 

"Is  he  dead?"  inquired  Neale. 

"Not  yit.    No  bullets  can't  kill  Casey." 

"Was  his  pipe  a  short,  black  one?" 

"Itwusthot." 

"And  did  Casey  have  it  everlastingly  in  his  mouth?" 

"He  shlept  in  it." 

160 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale  knew  that  particular  Casey,  and  he  examined 
this  loquacious  Irishman  more  closely.  He  recognized 
him  as  Pat  Shane,  one  of  the  trio  he  had  known  during  the 
survey  in  the  hills  two  years  ago.  The  recognition  was 
like  a  stab  to  Neale.  Memory  of  the  Wyoming  hills — of 
the  lost  Allie  Lee — cut  him  to  the  quick.  Shane  had  aged 
greatly.  There  were  scars  on  his  face  that  Neale  had  not 
seen  before. 

"Mister,  don't  I  know  yez?"  leered  Shane,  studying 
Neale  with  bleary  eyes. 

Neale  did  not  care  to  be  remembered.  The  waiter 
brought  his  dinner,  which  turned  out  to  be  a  poor  one  at  a 
high  price.  After  eating,  Neale  went  out  and  began  to 
saunter  along  the  walk.  The  sun  had  set  and  the  wind 
had  gone  down.  There  was  no  flying  dust.  The  street 
was  again  crowded  with  men,  but  nothing  like  it  had  been 
after  the  arrival  of  the  train.  No  one  paid  much  attention 
to  Neale.  On  that  walk  he  counted  nineteen  saloons,  and 
probably  some  of  the  larger  places  were  of  like  nature, 
but  not  so  wide  open  to  the  casual  glance. 

Neale  strolled  through  the  town  from  end  to  end,  and 
across  the  railroad  outside  the  limits,  to  a  high  bank,  where 
he  sat  down.  The  desert  was  beautiful  away  to  the  west, 
with  its  dull,  mottled  hues  backed  by  gold  and  purple,  with 
its  sweep  and  heave  and  notched  horizon.  Near  at  hand 
it  seemed  drab  and  bare.  He  watched  a  long  train  of 
flat  and  box  cars  come  in,  and  saw  that  every  car  swarmed 
with  soldiers  and  laborers.  The  train  discharged  its  load 
of  thousands,  and  steamed  back  for  more. 

Twilight  fell.  All  hours  were  difficult  for  Neale,  but 
twilight  was  the  most  unendurable,  for  it  had  been  the 
hour  Allie  Lee  loved  best,  and  during  which  she  and  Neale 
had  walked  hand  in  hand  along  the  brook,  back  there  in 
the  lovely  and  beautiful  valley  in  the  hills.  Neale  could 
not  sit  still  long;  he  could  not  rest,  nor  sleep  well,  nor 
work,  nor  indeed  be  of  any  use  to  himself  or  to  any  one, 
and  all  because  he  was  haunted  and  driven  by  the  memory 

161 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

of  Allie  Lee.  And  at  such  quiet  hours  as  this,  in  the  midst 
of  the  turmoil  he  had  sought  for  weeks,  a  sadness  filled  hia 
soul,  and  an  eternal  remorse.  The  love  that  had  changed 
him  and  the  life  that  had  failed  him  seemed  utterly  mis- 
related. 

To  and  fro  he  paced  on  the  bare  ridge  while  twilight 
shadowed.  A  star  twinkled  in  the  west,  a  night  wind  began 
to  seep  the  sand.  The  desert,  vast,  hidden,  mysterious, 
yet  so  free  and  untrammeled,  darkened. 

Lights  began  to  flash  up  along  the  streets  of  Benton, 
and  presently  Neale  became  aware  of  a  low  and  mounting 
hum,  like  a  first  stir  of  angry  bees. 

The  loud  and  challenging  strains  of  a  band  drew  Neale 
toward  the  center  of  the  main  street,  where  men  were 
pouring  into  a  big  tent. 

He  halted  outside  and  watched.  This  strident,  business 
like,  quick-step  music  and  the  sight  of  the  men  and  women 
attracted  thereby  made  Neale  realize  that  Benton  had 
arisen  in  a  day  and  would  die  out  in  a  night;  its  life  would 
be  swift,  vile,  and  deadly. 

When  the  band  ceased  a  sudden  roar  came  from  in 
side  the  big  tent,  a  commingling  of  the  rough  voices  of  men 
and  the  humming  of  wheels,  the  clinking  of  glasses  and 
gold,  the  rattling  of  dice,  the  hoarse  call  of  a  dealer,  the 
shuffling  of  feet — a  roar  pierced  now  and  then  by  the 
shrill,  vacant,  soundless  laugh  of  a  woman. 

It  was  that  last  sound  which  almost  turned  Neale 
away  from  the  door.  He  shunned  women.  But  this  place 
fascinated  him.  He  went  in  under  the  flaming  lamps. 

The  place  was  crowded — a  huge  tent  stretched  over  a 
framework  of  wood,  and  it  was  full  of  people,  din,  smoke, 
movement.  The  floor  was  good  planking  covered  with  sand. 
Walking  was  possible  only  round  the  narrow  aisles  be 
tween  groups  at  tables. 

Neale's  sauntering  brought  him  to  the  bar.  It  had  to 
him  a  fgmiHqr  look,  and  afterward  he  learned  that  it  had 

162 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

been  brought  complete  from  St.  Lotus,  where  he  had 
seen  it  in  a  saloon.  It  seemed  a  huge,  glittering,  magnificent 
monstrosity  in  that  coarse,  bare  setting.  Wide  mirrors, 
glistening  bottles,  paintings  of  nude  women,  row  after  row 
of  polished  glasses,  a  brawny,  villanous  barkeeper,  with 
three  attendants,  all  working  fast,  a  line  of  rough,  hoarse 
men  five  deep  before  the  counter — all  these  things  con 
stituted  a  scene  that  had  the  aspects  of  a  city  and  yet  was 
redolent  with  an  atmosphere  no  city  ever  knew.  The  drink 
ers  were  not  all  rough  men.  There  were  elegant  black- 
hatted,  frock-coated  men  of  leisure  in  that  line — not  direct 
ors  and  commissioners  and  traveling  guests  of  the  U.  P.  R., 
but  gentlemen  of  chance.  Gamblers! 

The  band  now  began  a  different  strain  of  dance  music. 
Neale  slowly  worked  his  way  around.  At  the  end  of  the 
big  tent  a  wide  door  opened  into  another  big  room — a 
dance-hall,  full  of  dancers. 

Neale  had  seen  nothing  like  this  in  the  other  construc 
tion  camps. 

A  ball  was  in  progress.  Just  now  it  was  merry,  excited, 
lively.  Neale  got  inside  and  behind  the  row  of  crowded 
benches;  he  stood  up  against  a  post  to  watch.  Probably 
two-hundred  people  were  in  the  hall,  most  of  them  sitting. 
How  singular,  it  struck  Neale,  to  see  good-looking,  bare- 
armed  and  bare-necked  young  women  dancing  there,  and 
dancing  well !  There  were  other  women — painted,  hollow- 
eyed — sad  wrecks  of  womanhood.  The  male  dancers  were 
young  men,  as  years  counted,  mostly  unfamiliar  with  the 
rhythmic  motion  of  feet  to  a  tune,  and  they  bore  the  rough 
stamp  of  soldiers  and  laborers.  But  there  were  others,  as 
there  had  been  before  the  bar,  who  wore  their  clothes  differ 
ently,  who  had  a  different  poise  and  swing — young  men,  like 
Neale,  whose  earlier  years  had  known  some  of  the  graces 
of  society.  They  did  not  belong  there ;  the  young  women  did 
not  belong  there.  The  place  seemed  unreal.  This  was  a 
merry  scene,  apparently  with  little  sign,  at  that  moment, 
of  what  it  actually  meant.  Neale  sensed  its  undercurrent. 

163 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  left  the  dance-hall.  Of  the  gambling  games,  he  liked 
best  both  to  watch  and  to  play  poker.  It  had  interest  for 
him.  The  winning  or  losing  of  money  was  not  of  great 
moment.  Poker  was  not  all  chance  or  luck,  such  as  the 
roll  of  a  ball,  the  turn  of  a  card,  or  the  facing  up  of  dice. 
Presently  he  became  one  of  an  interested  group  round  a 
table  watching  four  men  play  poker. 

One,  a  gambler  in  black,  immaculate  in  contrast  to  his 
companions,  had  a  white,  hard,  expressionless  face,  with  eyes 
of  steel  and  thin  lips.  His  hands  were  wonderful.  Probably 
they  never  saw  the  sunlight,  certainly  no  labor.  They  were 
as  swift  as  light,  too  swift  for  the  glance  of  an  eye.  But 
when  he  dealt  the  cards  he  was  slow,  careful,  deliberate. 
The  stakes  were  gold,  and  the  largest  heap  lay  in  front  of 
him.  One  of  his  opponents  was  a  giant  of  a  fellow,  young, 
with  hulking  shoulders,  heated  face,  and  broken  nose — a 
desperado  if  Neale  ever  saw  one.  The  other  two  players 
called  this  strapping  brute  Fresno.  The  little  man  with  a 
sallow  face  like  a  wolf  was  evidently  too  intent  on  the 
game  to  look  up.  He  appeared  to  be  losing.  Beside  his 
small  pile  of  gold  stood  an  empty  tumbler.  The  other  and 
last  player  was  a  huge,  bull-necked  man  whom  Neale  had 
seen  before.  It  was  difficult  to  place  him,  but  after  study 
ing  the  red  cheeks  and  heavy,  drooping  mustache,  and 
hearing  the  loud  voice,  he  recognized  him  as  a  boss  of 
graders — a  head  boss.  Presently  the  sallow-faced  player 
called  him  Mull,  and  then  Neale  remembered  him  well. 

Several  of  the  watchers  round  this  table  lounged  away, 
leaving  a  better  vantage-place  for  Neale. 

"May  I  sit  in  the  game?"  he  inquired,  during  a  deal. 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  gambler. 

"Naw.  We  gotta  nough,"  said  the  sallow  man,  and  he 
glanced  from  Neale  to  the  gambler  as  if  he  suspected 
them.  Gamblers  often  worked  in  pairs. 

"I  just  came  to  Ben  ton,"  added  Neale,  reading  the 
man's  thought.  "I  never  saw  the  gentleman  in  black 
before." 

164 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"What  th'  hell!"  rumbled  Mull,  grabbing  up  his  cards. 

Fresno  leered. 

The  gambler  leaned  back  and  his  swift  white  hands 
flashed.  Neale  believed  he  had  a  derringer  up  each  sleeve. 
A  wrong  word  now  would  precipitate  a  fight. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Neale,  hastily.  "I  don't  want  to 
make  trouble.  I  just  said  I  never  saw  this  gentleman 
before." 

"Nor  I  him,"  returned  the  gambler,  courteously.  "My 
name  is  Place  Hough  and  my  word  is  not  doubted." 

Neale  had  heard  of  this  famous  Mississippi  River 
gambler.  So,  evidently,  had  the  other  three  players.  The 
game  proceeded,  and  when  it  came  to  Hough's  deal  Mull 
bet  hard  and  lost  all.  His  big,  hairy  hands  shook.  He 
looked  at  Fresno  and  the  other  fellow,  but  not  at  Hough. 

"I'm  broke,"  he  said,  gruffly,  and  got  up  from  the  bench. 

He  strode  past  Hough,  and  behind  him;  then  as  if  sud 
denly,  instinctively,  answering  to  fury,  he  whipped  out  a  gun. 

Neale,  just  as  instinctively,  grasped  the  rising  hand. 

"Hold  on,  there!"  he  called.  "Would  you  shoot  a  man 
in  the  back?" 

And  Neale,  whose  grip  was  powerful,  caused  the  other 
to  drop  the  gun.  Neale  kicked  it  aside.  Fresno  got  up. 

"Whar's  your  head,  Mull?"  he  growled.  "Git  out  of 
this!" 

Attention  had  been  attracted  to  Mull.  Some  one  picked 
up  the  gun.  The  sallow-faced  man  rose,  holding  out  his 
hand  for  it.  Hough  did  not  even  turn  around. 

"I  was  goin'  to  hold  him  up,"  said  Mull.  He  glared 
fiercely  at  Neale,  wrenched  his  hand  free,  and  with  his 
comrades  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

The  gambler  rose  and  shook  down  his  sleeves.  The 
action  convinced  Neale  that  he  had  held  a  little  gun  in 
each  hand. 

"I  saw  him  draw,"  he  said.  " You  saved  his  life !  .  .  . 
Nevertheless,  I  appreciate  your  action.  My  name  is  Place 
Houe:h.  Will  you  drink  with  me?" 

165 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Sure.   .    .    .   My  name  is  Neale." 

They  approached  the  bar  and  drank  together. 

"A  railroaa  man,  I  take  it?"  asked  Hough. 

"I  was.    I'm  foot-loose  now." 

A  fleeting  smile  crossed  the  gambler's  face.  "Benton  is 
bad  enough,  without  you  being  foot-loose." 

"All  these  camps  are  tough,"  replied  Neale. 

"I  was  in  North  Platte,  Kearney,  Cheyenne,  and  Medi 
cine  Bow  during  their  rise,"  said  Hough.  "They  were 
tough.  But  they  were  not  Benton.  And  the  next  camp 
west,  which  will  be  the  last — it  will  be  Roaring  Hell. 
What  will  be  its  name  ?"  * 

"Why  is  Benton  worse?"  inquired  Neale. 

"The  big  work  is  well  under  way  now,  with  a  tremendous 
push  from  behind.  There  are  three  men  for  every  man's 
work.  That  lays  off  two  men  each  day.  Drunk  or  dead. 
The  place  is  wild — far  off.  There's  gold — hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars  in  gold  dumped  off  the  trains.  Benton 
has  had  one  pay-day.  That  day  was  the  sight  of  my 
life!  .  .  .  Then  .  .  .  there  are  women." 

"I  saw  a  few  in  the  dance-hall,"  replied  Neale. 

"Then  you  haven't  looked  in  at  Stanton's?" 

"Who's  he?" 

"Stanton  is  not  a  man,"  replied  Hough. 

Neale  glanced  inquiringly  over  his  glass. 

"Beauty  Stanton,  they  call  her,"  went  on  Hough.  "I 
saw  her  in  New  Orleans  years  ago  when  she  was  a  very 
young  woman — notorious  then.  She  had  the  beauty  and 
she  led  the  life  .  .  .  did  Beauty  Stanton." 

Neale  made  no  comment,  and  Hough,  turning  to  pay  for 
the  drinks,  was  accosted  by  several  men.  They  wanted  to 
play  poker. 

"Gentlemen,  I  hate  to  take  your  money,"  he  said. 
"But  I  never  refuse  to  sit  in  a  game.  Neale,  will  you  join 
us?" 

They  found  a  table  just  vacated.  Neale  took  two  of  the 
three  strangers  to  be  prosperous  merchants  or  ranchers 

166 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

from  the  Missouri  country.  The  third  was  a  gambler  by 
profession.  Neale  found  himself  in  unusually  sharp  com 
pany.  He  did  not  have  a  great  deal  of  money.  So  in  order 
to  keep  clear-headed  he  did  not  drink.  And  he  began  to 
win,  not  by  reason  of  excellent  judgment,  but  because  he 
was  lucky.  He  had  good  cards  all  the  time,  and  part  of 
the  time  very  strong  ones.  It  struck  him  presently  that 
these  remarkable  hands  came  during  Hough's  deal,  and  he 
wondered  if  the  gambler  was  deliberately  manipulating  the 
cards  to  his  advantage.  At  any  rate,  he  won  hundreds  of 
dollars. 

"Mr.  Neale,  do  you  always  hold  such  cards?"  asked  one 
of  the  men. 

"Why,  sure,"  replied  Neale.  He  could  not  help  being 
excited  and  elated. 

"Well,  he  can't  be  beat,"  said  the  other. 

"Lucky  at  cards,  unlucky  in  love,"  remarked  the  third 
of  the  trio.  "I  pass." 

Hough  was  looking  straight  at  Neale  when  this  last 
remark  was  made.  And  Neale  suddenly  lost  his  smile,  his 
flush.  The  gambler  dropped  his  glance. 

"Play  the  game  and  don't  get  personal  in  your  re 
marks,"  he  said.  "This  is  poker." 

Neale  continued  to  win,  but  his  excitement  did  not  re 
turn,  nor  his  elation.  A  random  word  from  a  strange 
man  had  power  to  sting  him.  Unlucky  in  love!  Alas! 
What  was  luck,  gold — anything  to  him  any  more! 

By  the  time  the  game  was  ended  Neale  felt  a  friendly 
interest  in  Hough  that  was  difficult  to  define  or  explain; 
and  the  conviction  gained  upon  him  that  the  gambler 
had  deliberately  dealt  him  those  remarkable  cards. 

"Let's  see,"  said  Hough,  consulting  his  watch.  "Twelve 
o'clock!  Stan  ton's  will  be  humming.  We'll  go  in." 

Neale  did  not  want  to  show  his  reluctance,  yet  he  did 
not  know  just  what  to  say.  After  all,  he  was  drifting.  So 
he  went. 

It  seemed  that  all  the  visitors  who  had  been  in  the 

167 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

gambling-hell  had  gravitated  to  this  other  dance-hall.  The 
entrance  appeared  to  be  through  a  hotel.  At  least  Neale 
saw  the  hotel  sign.  The  building  was  not  made  of  canvas,' 
but  painted  wood  in  sections,  like  the  scenes  of  a  stage. 
Men  were  coming  and  going ;  the  hum  of  music  and  gaiety 
came  from  the  rear;  there  were  rugs,  pictures,  chairs;  this 
place,  whatever  its  nature,  made  pretensions.  Neale  did 
not  see  any  bar. 

They  entered  a  big  room  full  of  people,  apparently  doing 
nothing.  From  the  opposite  side,  where  the  dance-hall 
opened,  came  a  hum  that  seemed  at  once  music  and  dis 
cordance,  gaiety  and  wildness,  with  a  strange,  carrying 
undertone  raw  and  violent. 

Hough  led  Neale  across  the  room  to  where  he  could 
look  into  the  dance-hall. 

Neale  saw  a  mad,  colorful  flash  and  whirl  of  dancers. 

Hough  whispered  in  Neale's  ear:  "Stanton  throws 
the  drunks  out  of  here." 

No,  it  appeared  the  dancers  were  not  drunk  with  liquor. 
But  there  was  evidence  of  other  drunkenness  than  that 
of  the  bottle.  The  floor  was  crowded.  Looking  at  the  mass, 
Neale  could  only  see  whirling,  heated  faces,  white,  clinging 
arms,  forms  swaying  round  and  round,  a  wild  rhythm  with 
out  grace,  a  dance  in  which  music  played  no  real  part, 
where  men  and  women  were  lost.  Neale  had  never  seen  a 
sight  like  that.  He  was  stunned.  There  were  no  souls 
here.  Only  beasts  of  men,  and  women  for  whom  there  was 
no  name.  If  death  stalked  in  that  camp,  as  Hough  had 
intimated,  and  hell  was  there,  then  the  two  could  not 
meet  too  soon. 

If  the  mass  and  the  spirit  and  the  sense  of  the  scene 
dismayed  Neale,  the  living  beings,  the  creatures,  the 
women — for  the  men  were  beyond  him — confounded  him 
with  pity,  consternation,  and  stinging  regret.  He  had 
loved  two  women — his  mother  and  Allie — so  well  that  he 
ought  to  love  all  women  because  they  were  of  the  same 
sex.  Yet  how  impossible!  Had  these  creatures  any  sex? 

168 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Yet  they  were — at  least  many  were — young,  gay,  pretty, 
wild,  full  of  life.  They  had  swift  suppleness,  smiles,  flash 
ing  eyes,  a  look  at  once  intent  and  yet  vacant.  But  few 
onlookers  would  have  noticed  that.  The  eyes  for  which 
the  dance  was  meant  saw  the  mad  whirl,  the  bare  flesh,  the 
brazen  glances,  the  close  embrace. 

The  music  ended,  the  dancers  stopped,  the  shuffling 
ceased.  There  were  no  seats  unoccupied,  so  the  dancers 
walked  around  or  formed  in  groups. 

"Well,  I  see  Ruby  has  spotted  you,"  observed  Hough. 

Neale  did  not  gather  exactly  what  the  gambler  meant, 
yet  he  associated  the  remark  with  a  girl  dressed  in  red 
who  had  paused  at  the  door  with  others  and  looked  directly 
at  Neale.  At  that  moment  some  one  engaged  Hough's  at 
tention. 

The  girl  would  have  been  striking  in  any  company. 
Neale  thought  her  neither  beautiful  nor  pretty,  but  he  kept 
on  looking.  Her  arms  were  bare,  her  dress  cut  very  low. 
Her  face  offered  vivid  contrast  to  the  carmine  on  her  lips. 
It  was  a  round,  soft  face,  with  narrow  eyes,  dark,  seductive, 
bold.  She  tilted  her  head  to  one  side  and  suddenly  smiled 
at  Neale.  It  startled  him.  It  was  a  smile  with  the  shock 
of  a  bullet.  It  held  Neale,  so  that  when  she  crossed  to 
him  he  could  not  move.  He  felt  rather  than  saw  Hough 
return  to  his  side.  The  girl  took  hold  of  the  lapels  of 
Neale's  coat.  She  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were  dark,  with  what 
seemed  red  shadows  deep  in  them.  She  had  white  teeth. 
The  carmined  lips  curled  in  a  smile — a  smile,  impossible 
to  believe,  of  youth  and  sweetness,  that  disclosed  a  dimple 
in  her  cheek.  She  was  pretty.  She  was  holding  him, 
pulling  him  a  little  toward  her. 

"I  like  you!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  suddenness  of  the  incident,  the  impossibility  of 
what  was  happening,  made  Neale  dumb.  He  felt  her,  saw 
her  as  he  were  in  a  dream.  Her  face  possessed  a  peculiar 
fascination.  The  sleepy,  seductive  eyes;  the  provoking 
half-smile,  teasing,  alluring;  the  red  lips,  full  and  young 

12  169 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

through  the  carmine  paint;  all  of  her  seemed  to  breathe  ^ 
different  kind  of  a  power  than  he  had  ever  before  ex 
perienced — unspiritual,  elemental,  strong  as  some  heady 
wine.  She  represented  youth,  health,  beauty,  terribly 
linked  with  evil  wisdom,  and  a  corrupt  and  irresistible 
power,  possessing  a  base  and  mysterious  affinity  for  man. 

The  breath  and  the  charm  and  the  pestilence  of  her 
passed  over  Neale  like  fire. 

"Sweetheart,  will  you  dance  with  me?"  she  asked,  with 
her  head  tilted  to  one  side  and  her  half -open  veiled  eyes  on 
his. 

"No,"  replied  Neale.  He  put  her  from  him,  gently  but 
coldly. 

She  showed  slow  surprise.  ' '  Why  not  ?  Can't  you  dance  T 
You  don't  look  like  a  gawk." 

"Yes,  I  can  dance,"  replied  Neale. 

"Then  will  you  dance  with  me?"  she  retorted,  and  red 
spots  showed  through  the  white  on  her  cheeks. 

"I  told  you  no,"  replied  Neale. 

His  reply  transported  her  into  a  sudden  fury.  She 
swung  her  hand  viciously.  Hough  caught  it,  saving  Neale 
from  a  sounding  slap  in  the  face. 

"Ruby,  don't  lose  your  temper,"  remonstrated  the 
gambler. 

"He  insulted  me!"  she  cried,  passionately. 

"He  did  not.    Ruby,  you're  spoiled — " 

"Spoiled— hell!  .  .  .  Didn't  he  look  at  me,  flirt  with 
me?  That's  why  I  asked  him  to  dance.  Then  he  insulted 
me.  I'll  make  Cordy  shoot  him  up  for  it." 

"No,  you  won't,"  replied  Hough,  and  he  pulled  her  toward 
his  companion,  a  tall  woman  with  golden  hair.  "Stanton, 
shut  her  up." 

The  woman  addressed  spoke  a  few  words  in  Ruby's  ear. 
Then  the  girl  flounced  away.  But  she  spoke  with  wither 
ing  scorn  to  Neale. 

"What  in  hell  did  you  come  in  here  for,  you  big  handsome 
Stiff?" 

170 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

With  that  she  was  lost  amid  her  mirthful  companions. 

Hough  turned  to  Neale.  "The  girl's  a  favorite.  You 
ruffled  her  vanity  .  .  .  you  see.  That's  Benton.  If 
you  had  happened  to  be  alone  you  would  have  had  gun 
play.  Be  careful  after  this.'* 

"But  I  didn't  flirt  with  her,"  protested  Neale.  "I  only 
looked  at  her — curiously,  of  course.  And  I  said  I  wouldn't 
dance." 

Hough  laughed.  "You're  young  in  Benton.  Neale, 
let  me  introduce  to  you  the  lady  who  saved  you  from 
some  inconvenience.  .  .  .  Miss  Stanton — Mr.  Neale." 

And  that  was  how  Neale  met  Beauty  Stanton.  It 
seemed  she  had  done  him  a  service.  He  thanked  her. 
Neale's  manner  with  women  was  courteous  and  deferential. 
It  showed  strangely  here  by  contrast.  The  Stanton  woman 
was  superb,  not  more  than  thirty  years  old,  with  a  face 
that  must  have  been  lovely  once  and  held  the  haunting 
ghost  of  beauty  still.  Her  hair  was  dead  gold;  her  eyes 
were  large  and  blue,  with  dark  circles  under  them;  and  her 
features  had  a  clear-cut  classic  regularity. 

"Where's  Ancliffe?"  asked  Hough,  addressing  Stanton. 
She  pointed,  and  Hough  left  them. 

"Neale,  you're  new  here,"  affirmed  the  woman,  rather 
curiously. 

"Didn't  I  look  like  it?  I  can't  forget  what  that  girl 
said,"  replied  Neale. 

"Tell  me." 

"She  asked  me  what  in  the  hell  I  came  here  for.  And 
she  called  me — " 

"Oh,  I  heard  what  Ruby  called  you.  It's  a  wonder  it 
wasn't  worse.  She  can  swear  like  a  trooper.  The  men  are 
mad  over  Ruby.  It  'd  be  just  like  her  to  fall  in  love  with 
you  for  snubbing  her." 

"I  hope  she  doesn't,"  replied  Neale,  constrainedly. 

"May  I  ask — what  did  you  come  here  for?" 

"You  mean  here  to  your  dance-hall?  Why,  Hough 
brought  me.  I  met  him.  We  played  cards  and — " 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"No.    I  mean  what  brought  you  to  Benton?" 

"I  just  drifted  here.  .  .  .I'm  looking  for  a — a  lost 
friend,"  said  Neale. 

"No  work?  But  you're  no  spiker  or  capper  or  boss. 
I  know  that  sort.  And  I  can  spot  a  gambler  a  mile.  The 
whole  world  meets  out  here  in  Benton.  But  not  many 
young  men  like  you  wander  into  my  place." 

"Like  me?    How  so?" 

"The  men  here  are  wolves  on  the  scent  for  flesh;  like 
bandits  on  the  trail  of  gold.  .  .  .  But  you — you're  like 
my  friend  Ancliffe." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Neale,  politely. 

"Who  is  he?  God  only  knows.  But  he's  an  English 
man  and  a  gentleman.  It's  a  pity  men  like  Ancliffe  and 
you  drift  out  here." 

She  spoke  seriously.  She  had  the  accent  and  manner  of 
breeding. 

"Why,  Miss  Stanton?"  inquired  Neale.  He  was  find 
ing  another  woman  here  and  it  was  interesting  to  him. 

"Because  it  means  wasted  life.  You  don't  work.  You're 
not  crooked.  You  can't  do  any  good.  And  only  a  knife  in  the 
back  or  a  bullet  from  some  drunken  bully's  gun  awaits  you." 

"That  isn't  a  very  hopeful  outlook,  I'll  admit,"  replied 
Neale,  thoughtfully. 

At  this  point  Hough  returned  with  a  pale,  slender  man 
whose  clothes  and  gait  were  not  American.  He  intro 
duced  him  as  Ancliffe.  Neale  felt  another  accession  of  in- 
terest.  Benton  might  be  hell,  but  he  was  meeting  new 
types  of  men  and  women.  Ancliffe  was  fair;  he  had  a 
handsome  face  that  held  a  story,  and  tired  blue  eyes 
that  looked  out  upon  the  world  wearily  and  mildly,  with 
out  curiosity  and  without  hope.  An  Englishman  of  broken 
fortunes. 

"Just  arrived,  eh?"  he  said  to  Neale.  "Rather  jolly 
here,  don't  you  think?" 

"A  fellow's  not  going  to  stagnate  in  Benton,"  replied 
Neale. 

172 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Not  while  he's  alive,"  interposed  Stanton. 

"Miss  Stanton,  that  idea  seems  to  persist  with  you — the 
brevity  of  life,"  said  Neale,  smiling.  "What  are  the 
average  days  for  a  mortal  in  this  bloody  Benton?" 

"Days!  You  mean  hours.  I  call  the  night  blessed  that 
some  one  is  not  dragged  out  of  my  place.  And  I  don't 
sell  drinks.  .  .  .I've  saved  Ancliffe's  life  nine  times  I 
know  of.  Either  he  hasn't  any  sense  or  he  wants  to  get 
killed." 

"I  assure  you  it's  the  former,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"But,  my  friends,  I'm  serious,"  she  returned,  earnestly. 
"  This  awful  place  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  .  .  .  Mr.  Neale 
here,  he  would  have  had  to  face  a  gun  already  but  for 
me." 

"Miss  Stanton,  I  appreciate  your  kindness,"  replied 
Neale.  "But  it  doesn't  follow  that  if  I  had  to  face  a  gun 
I'd  be  sure  to  go  down." 

"You  can  throw  a  gun?"  questioned  Hough. 

"I  had  a  cowboy  gun-thrower  for  a  partner  for  years; 
out  on  the  surveying  of  the  road.  He's  the  friend  J  men 
tioned." 

"Boy,  you're  courting  death!"  exclaimed  Stanton. 

Then  the  music  started  up  again.  Conversation  was 
scarcely  worth  while  during  the  dancing.  Neale  watched 
as  before.  Twice  as  he  gazed  at  the  whirling  couples  he 
caught  the  eyes  of  the  girl  Ruby  bent  upon  him.  They 
were  expressive  of  pique,  resentment,  curiosity.  Neale  did 
not  look  that  way  any  more.  Besides,  his  attention  was 
drawn  elsewhere.  Hough  yelled  in  his  ear  to  watch  the 
fun.  A  fight  had  started.  A  strapping  fellow  wearing  a 
belt  containing  gun  and  bowie-knife  had  jumped  upon  a 
table  just  as  the  music  stopped.  He  was  drunk.  He 
looked  like  a  young  workman  ambitious  to  be  a  desperado. 

"Ladies  an'  gennelmen,"  he  bawled,  "I  been — requested 
t'  sing." 

Yells  and  hoots  answered  him.  He  glared  ferociously 
around,  trying  to  pick  out  one  of  his  insulters.  Trouble 

173 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

was  brewing.  Something  was  thrown  at  him  from  behind 
and  it  struck  him.  He  wheeled,  unsteady  upon  his  feet. 
Then  several  men,  bareheaded  and  evidently  attendants 
of  the  hall,  made  a  rush  for  him.  The  table  was  upset. 
The  would-be  singer  went  down  in  a  heap,  and  he  was 
pounced  upon,  handled  like  a  sack,  and  thrown  out.  The 
crowd  roared  its  glee. 

"The  worst  of  that  is  those  fellows  always  come  back 
drunk  and  ugly,"  said  Stanton.  "Then  we  all  begin  to 
run  or  dodge." 

"Your  men  didn't  lose  time  with  that  rowdy,"  remarked 
Neale. 

"I've  hired  all  kinds  of  men  to  keep  order,"  she  replied. 
"Laborers,  ex-sheriffs,  gunmen,  bad  men.  The  Irish  are 
the  best  on  the  job.  But  they  won't  stick.  I've  got  eight 
men  here  now,  and  they  are  a  tough  lot.  I'm  scared  to 
death  of  them.  I  believe  they  rob  my  guests.  But  what 
can  I  do  ?  Without  some  aid  I  couldn't  run  the  place.  It  '11 
be  the  death  of  me." 

Neale  did  not  doubt  that.  A  shadow  surely  hovered 
over  this  strange  woman,  but  he  was  surprised  at  the  serious 
ness  with  which  she  spoke.  Evidently  she  tried  to  preserve 
order,  to  avert  fights  and  bloodshed,  so  that  licentiousness 
could  go  on  unrestrained.  Neale  believed  they  must  go 
-hand  in  hand.  He  did  not  see  how  it  would  be  possible 
for  a  place  like  this  to  last  long.  It  could  not.  The  life  of 
the  place  brought  out  the  worst  in  men.  It  created  oppor 
tunities.  Neale  watched  them  pass,  seeing  the  truth  in 
the  red  eyes,  the  heavy  lids,  the  open  mouths,  the  look  and 
gait  and  gesture.  A  wild  frenzy  had  fastened  upon  their 
minds.  He  found  an  added  curiosity  in  studying  the  faces 
of  Ancliffe  and  Hough.  The  Englishman  had  run  his 
race.  Any  place  would  suit  him  for  the  end.  Neale  saw 
this  and  marveled  at  the  man's  ease  and  grace  and  amia 
bility.  He  reminded  Neale  of  Larry  Red  King — the  same 
cool,  easy,  careless  air.  Ancliffe  would  die  game.  Hough 
was  not  affected  by  this  sort  of  debauched  life  any  more 

174 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

than  he  would  have  been  by  any  other  kind.  He  preyed 
on  men.  He  looked  on  with  cold,  gray,  expressionless 
face.  Possibly  he,  too,  would  find  an  end  in  Benton  sooner 
or  later. 

These  reflections,  passing  swiftly,  made  Neale  think  of 
himself.  What  was  true  for  others  must  be  true  for  him. 
The  presence  of  any  of  these  persons — of  Hough  and 
Ancliffe,  of  himself,  in  Beauty  Stanton's  gaudy  resort  was 
sad  proof  of  a  disordered  life. 

Some  one  touched  him,  interrupted  his  thought. 

"You've  had  trouble?"  asked  Stanton,  who  had  turned 
from  the  others. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Well,  we've  all  had  that.  .  .  .  You  seem  young  to 
me." 

Hough  turned  to  speak  to  Stanton.  "Ruby's  going  to 
make  trouble." 

"No!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  with  eyes  lighting. 

Neale  then  saw  that  the  girl  Ruby,  with  a  short,  bold- 
looking  fellow  who  packed  a  gun,  and  several  companions 
of  both  sexes,  had  come  in  from  the  dance-hall  and  had 
taken  up  a  position  near  him.  Stanton  went  over  to  them. 
She  drew  Ruby  aside  and  talked  to  her.  The  girl  showed 
none  of  the  passion  that  had  marked  her  manner  a  little 
while  before.  Presently  Stanton  returned. 

"Ruby's  got  over  her  temper,"  she  said,  with  evident 
relief,  to  Neale.  "  She  asked  me  to  say  that  she  apologized. 
It's  just  what  I  told  you.  She'll  fall  madly  in  love  with  you 
for  what  you  did.  .  .  .  She's  of  good  family,  Neale.  She 
has  a  sister  she  talks  much  of,  and  a  home  she  could  go 
back  to  if  she  wasn't  ashamed." 

"That  so?"  replied  Neale,  thoughtfully.  "Let  me  talk 
to  her." 

At  a  slight  sign  from  Stanton,  Ruby  joined  the  group. 

"Ruby,    you've    already   introduced    yourself   to   this 
gentleman,  but  not  so  nicely  as  you  might  have  done," 
Beauty. 

175 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"I'm  sorry, ' '  replied  Ruby.  A  certain  wistfulness  showed 
m  her  low  tones. 

1 '  Maybe  I  was  rude, ' '  said  Neale.  l '  I  didn't  intend  to  be. 
I  couldn't  dance  with  any  one  here — or  anywhere.  ..." 
Then  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  lower  tone.  "But  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  will  do.  I  won  a  thousand  dollars  to-night.  I'll 
give  you  half  of  it  if  you'll  go  home." 

The  girl  shrank  as  if  she  had  received  a  stab.  Then  she 
stiffened. 

"Why  don't  you  go  home?"  she  retorted.  "We're  all 
going  to  hell  out  here,  and  the  gamest  will  get  there 
soonest." 

She  glared  at  Neale  an  instant,  white-faced  and  hard, 
and  then,  rejoining  her  companions,  she  led  them  away. 

Beauty  Stanton  seemed  to  have  received  something  of 
the  check  that  had  changed  the  girl  Ruby. 

"Gentlemen,  you  are  my  only  friends  in  Benton.  But 
these  are  business  hours." 

Presently  she  leaned  toward  Neale  and  whispered  to  him: 
"Boy,  you're  courting  death.  Some  one — something  has 
hurt  you.  But  you're  young.  .  .  .  Go  home!" 

Then  she  bade  him  good  night  and  left  the  group. 

He  looked  on  in  silence  after  that.  And  presently,  when 
Ancliffe  departed,  he  was  glad  to  follow  Hough  into  the 
street.  There  the  same  confusion  held.  A  loud  throng 
hurried  by,  as  if  bent  on  cramming  into  a  few  hours  the 
life  that  would  not  last  long. 

Neale  was  interested  to  inquire  more  about  Ancliffe. 
And  the  gambler  replied  that  the  Englishman  had  come 
from  no  one  knew  where;  that  he  did  not  go  to  extremes  in 
drinking  or  betting;  that  evidently  he  had  become  at 
tached  to  Beauty  Stanton;  that  surely  he  must  be  a  ruined 
man  of  class  who  had  left  all  behind  him,  and  had  become 
like  so  many  out  there — a  leaf  in  the  storm. 

"Stanton  took  to  you,"  went  on  Hough.  "I  saw 
that.  .  .  .  And  poor  Ruby!  I'll  tell  you,  Neale,  I'm  sorry 
for  some  of  these  women." 

7.76 


THE  TJ.    P.    TRAIL 

"Who  wouldn't  be?" 

"  Women  of  this  class  are  strange  to  you,  Neale.  But 
I've  mixed  with  them  for  years.  Of  course  Bent  on  sets  a 
pace  no  man  ever  saw  before.  Still,  even  the  hardest  and 
vilest  of  these  scullions  sometimes  shows  an  amazing 
streak  of  good.  And  women  like  Ruby  and  Beauty  Stan- 
ton,  whose  early  surroundings  must  have  been  refined — they 
are  beyond  understanding.  They  will  cut  your  heart  out 
for  a  slight,  and  sacrifice  their  lives  for  sake  of  a  cour 
teous  word.  It  was  your  manner  that  cut  Ruby  and  won 
Beauty  Stanton.  They  meet  with  neither  coldness  nor 
courtesy  out  here.  It  must  be  bitter  as  gall  for  a  woman 
like  Stanton  to  be  treated  as  you  treated  her — with  re 
spect.  Yet  see  how  it  got  her." 

"I  didn't  see  anything  in  particular,"  replied  Neale. 

"You  were  too  excited  and  disgusted  with  the  whole 
scene,"  said  Hough  as  they  reached  the  roaring  lights  of 
the  gambling-hell.  "Will  you  go  in  and  play  again? 
There  are  always  open  games." 

"No,  I  guess  not — unless  you  think — " 

"Boy,  I  think  nothing  except  that  I  liked  your  company 
and  that  I  owed  you  a  service.  Good  night." 

Neale  walked  to  his  lodgings  tired  and  thoughtful  and 
moody.  Behind  him  the  roar  lulled  and  swelled.  It  was 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  wondered  when  these 
night-hawks  slept.  He  wondered  where  Larry  was.  As  for 
himself,  he  found  slumber  not  easily  gained.  Dawn  was 
lighting  the  east  when  he  at  last  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NEALE  slept  until  late  the  next  day  and  awoke  with 
the  pang  that  a  new  day  always  gave  him  now.  He 
arose  slowly,  gloomily,  with  the  hateful  consciousness  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do.  He  had  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  now 
loneliness  was  bad  for  him. 

"If  I  were  half  a  man  I'd  get  out  of  here,  quick!"  he 
muttered,  in  scorn.  And  he  thought  of  the  broken  English 
man,  serene  and  at  ease,  settled  with  himself.  And  he 
thought  of  the  girl  Ruby  who  had  flung  the  taunt  at  him. 
Not  for  a  long  time  would  he  forget  that.  Certainly  this 
abandoned  girl  was  not  a  coward.  She  was  lost,  but  she 
was  magnificent. 

"I  guess  I'll  leave  Benton,"  he  soliloquized.  But  the 
place,  the  wildness,  fascinated  him.  "No!  I  guess  I'll 
stay." 

It  angered  him  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  He 
was  a  victim  of  many  moods,  and  underneath  every  one 
of  them  was  the  steady  ache,  the  dull  pain,  the  pang  in  his 
breast,  deep  in  the  bone. 

As  he  left  his  lodgings  he  heard  the  whistle  of  a  train. 
The  scene  down  the  street  was  similar  to  the  one  which 
had  greeted  him  the  day  before,  only  the  dust  was  not 
blowing  so  thickly.  He  went  into  a  hotel  for  his  meal  and 
fared  better,  watching  the  hurry  and  scurry  of  men.  After 
he  had  finished  he  strolled  toward  the  station. 

Benton  had  two  trains  each  day  now.  This  one,  just  in, 
was  long  and  loaded  to  its  utmost  capacity.  Neale  noticed 
an  Indian  arrow  sticking  fast  over  a  window  of  one  of  the 
coaches.  There  were  flat  cars  loaded  with  sections  of 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

houses,  and  box-cars  full  of  furniture.  Benton  was  growing 
every  day.  At  least  a  thousand  persons  got  off  that 
train,  adding  to  the  dusty,  jostling  mele'e. 

Suddenly  Neale  came  face  to  face  with  Larry  King. 

"Red!"  he  yelled,  and  made  at  the  cowboy. 

"I'm  shore  glad  to  see  you,"  drawled  Larry.  "What  'n 
hell  busted  loose  round  heah?" 

Neale  drew  Larry  out  of  the  crowd.  He  carried  a  small 
pack  done  up  in  a  canvas  covering. 

"Red,  your  face  looks  like  home  to  a  man  in  a  strange 
land,"  declared  Neale.  "Where  are  your  horses?" 

Larry  looked  less  at  his  ease. 

"Wai,  I  sold  them." 

"  Sold  them!    Those  great  horses?    Oh,  Red,  you  didn't !" 

"Hell!  It  costs  money  to  ride  on  this  heah  U.  P.  R.  thet 
we  built,  an'  I  had  no  money." 

"But  what  did  you  sell  them  for?  I — I  cared  for  those 
horses." 

"Will  you  keep  quiet  aboot  my  hosses?" 

Neale  had  never  before  seen  the  tinge  of  gray  in  that 
red-bronze  face. 

"But  I  told  you  to  straighten  up!" 

"Wai,  who  hasn't?"  retorted  Larry. 

"You  haven't!    Don't  lie." 

"If  you  put  it  thet  way,  all  right.  Now  what  're  you-all 
goin'  to  do  aboot  it?" 

"I'll  lick  you  good,"  declared  Neale,  hotly.  He  was 
angry  with  Larry,  but  angrier  with  himself  that  he  had 
been  the  cause  of  the  cowboy's  loss  of  work  and  of  his 
rplendid  horses. 

"  Lick  me !"  ejaculated  Larry.     "  You  mean  beat  me  up?" 

"Yes.    You  deserve  it." 

Larry  took  him  in  earnest  and  seemed  very  much  con 
cerned.  Neale  could  almost  have  laughed  at  the  cowboy's 
serious  predicament. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I  ain't  much  of  a  fighter  with  my  fists," 
said  Larry,  soberly.  "So  come  an'  get  it  over." 

179 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Oh,  damn  you,  Red!  ...  I  wouldn't  lay  a  hand  on 
you.  And  I  am  sick,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  .  .  .  I  thought 
you  got  here  ahead  of  me." 

Neale's  voice  grew  full  and  trembling. 

Larry  became  confused,  his  red  face  grew  redder,  and  the 
keen  blue  flash  of  his  eyes  softened. 

"Wai,  I  heerd  what  a  tough  place  this  heah  Benton 
was — so  I  jest  come." 

Larry  ended  this  speech  lamely,  but  the  way  he  hitched 
at  his  belt  was  conclusive. 

"Wai,  by  Gawd!  Look  who's  heah!"  he  suddenly  ex 
claimed. 

Neale  wheeled  with  a  start.  He  saw  a  scout,  in  buck 
skin,  a  tall  form  with  the  stride  of  a  mountaineer,  strangely 
familiar. 

"Slingerland!"  he  cried. 

The  trapper  bounded  at  them,  his  tanned  face  glowing 
his  gray  eyes  glad. 

"Boys,  it's  come  at  last!  I  knowed  I'd  run  into  you 
some  day,"  he  said,  and  he  gripped  them  with  horny 
hands. 

Neale  tried  to  speak,  but  a  terrible  cramp  in  his  throat 
choked  him.  He  appealed  with  his  hands  to  Slingerland. 
The  trapper  lost  his  smile  and  the  iron  set  returned  to  his 
features. 

Larry  choked  over  his  utterance.  ' '  Al-lie !  What  aboot — 
her?" 

"Boys,  it's  broke  me  down!"  replied  Slingerland,  hoarse 
ly.  "I  swear  to  you  I  never  left  Allie  alone  fer  a  year — 
an'  then — the  fust  time — when  she  made  me  go — I  come 
back  an'  finds  the  cabin  burnt.  .  .  .  She's  gone!  Gone! 
....  No  redskin  job.  That  damned  riffraff  out  of 
Calif orny.  I  tracked  'em.  Then  a  hell  of  a  storm  comes 
up.  No  tracks  left!  All's  lost!  An'  I  goes  back  to  my 
traps  in  the  mountains." 

"What — became — of — her?"  whispered  Neale. 

Slingerland  looked  away  from  him. 

180 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Son!  You  remember  Allie.  She'd  die,  quick!  .  .  . 
Wouldn't  she,  Larry?" 

"Shore.  Thet  girl — couldn't — hev  lived  a  day,"  re 
plied  Larry,  thickly. 

Neale  plunged  blindly  away  from  his  friends.  Then  the 
torture  in  his  breast  seemed  to  burst.  The  sobs  came, 
heavy,  racking.  He  sank  upon  a  box  and  bowed  his  head. 
There  Larry  and  Slingerland  found  him. 

The  cowboy  looked  down  with  helpless  pain.  "Aw. 
pard — don't  take  it — so  hard,"  he  implored. 

But  he  knew  and  Slingerland  knew  that  sympathy  could 
do  no  good  here.  There  was  no  hope,  no  help.  Neale 
was  stricken.  They  stood  there,  the  elder  man  looking 
all  the  sadness  and  inevitableness  of  that  wild  life,  and 
the  younger,  the  cowboy,  slowly  changing  to  iron. 

"Slingerland,  you-all  said  some  Calif orny  outfii  got 
Allie?"  he  queried. 

"I'm  sure  an'  sartin,"  replied  the  trapper.  "Tfc-m  days 
there  wasn't  any  travelin'  west,  so  early  after  winter- 
You  recollect  them  four  bandits  as  rode  in  on  us  one  day  ? 
They  was  from  Calif  orny." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  lookin'  fer  men  with  thet  Californy  brand," 
drawled  King,  and  in  his  slow,  easy,  cool  speech  there  was 
a  note  deadly  and  terrible. 

Neale  slowly  ceased  his  sobbing.  "My  nerve's  gone," 
he  said,  shakily. 

"No.  It  jest  broke  you  all  up  to  see  Slingerland.  An' 
it  shore  did  me,  too,"  replied  Larry. 

"It's  hard,  but — "  Slingerland  could  not  finish  his 
thought. 

"Slingerland,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  even  if  it  did  cut  me," 
said  Neale,  more  rationally.  "I'm  surprised,  too.  Are 
you  here  with  a  load  of  pelts?" 

"No.  Boys,  I  hed  to  give  up  trappin'.  I  couldn't  stand 
the  loneliness — after — after  .  .  .  An'  now  I'm  killin' 
buffalo  meat  for  the  soldiers  an'  the  construction  gangs 
Jest  got  in  on  thet  train  with  a  car-load  of  fresh  meat." 

181 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

" Buffalo  meat,"  echoed  Neale.    His  mind  wandered. 

"Son,  how's  your  work  goin'?" 

Neale  shook  his  head. 

The  cowboy,  answering  for  him,  said,  "We  kind  of 
chucked  the  work,  Slingerland." 

"What?    Are  you  hyar  in  Benton,  doin'  nothin'?" 

"Shore.    Thet's  the  size  of  it." 

The  trapper  made  a  vehement  gesture  of  disapproval 
and  he  bent  a  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  Neale. 

"Son,  you've  not  gone  an' — an' — " 

"Yes,"  replied  Neale,  throwing  out  his  hands,  "I 
quit.  I  couldn't  work.  I  can't  work.  I  can't  rest  or  stand 
still!"  .  .  . 

A  spasm  of  immense  regret  contracted  the  trapper's 
face.  And  Larry  King,  looking  away  over  the  sordid, 
dusty  passing  throng,  cursed  under  his  breath.  Neale  was 
the  first  to  recover  his  composure. 

"Let's  say  no  more.  What's  done  is  done,"  he  said. 
"Suppose  you  take  us  on  one  of  your  buffalo-hunts." 

Slingerland  grasped  at  straws.  "Wai,  now,  thef  ain't  a 
bad  idee.  I  can  use  you,"  he  replied,  eagerly.  "But  it's 
hard  an'  dangerous  work.  We  git  chased  by  redskins 
often.  An'  you'd  hev  to  ride.  I  reckon,  Neale,  you're 
good  enough  on  a  hoss.  But  our  cowboy  friend  hyar,  he 
can't  ride,  as  I  recollect  your  old  argyments." 

"My  job  was  hosses,"  drawled  Larry. 

"An'  besides,  you've  got  to  shoot  straight,  which  Reddy 
hasn't  hed  experience  of,"  went  on  Slingerland,  with  a 
broader  smile. 

"I  seen  you  was  packin'  a  Winchester  all  shiny  an' 
new,"  replied  Larry.  "Shore  I'm  in  fer  anythin'  with 
ridin'  an'  shootin'." 

"You'll  both  go,  then?" 

Neale  and  Larry  accepted  the  proposition  then  and 
there. 

"You'll  need  to  buy  rifles  an'  shells,  thet's  all,"  said 
Slingerland.  "I've  hosses  an'  outfit  over  at  the  work- 

182 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

camp,  an'  I've  been  huntin'  east  of  thar.  Come  on,  we'll 
go  to  a  store.  Thet  train's  goin'  back  soon." 

"Wai,  I  come  in  on  thet  train  an'  now  I'm  leavin'  on  it," 
drawled  Larry.  "Shore  is  funny.  Without  even  lookin* 
over  this  heah  Benton." 

On  the  ride  eastward  Slingerland  inquired  if  Neale  and 
Larry  had  ever  gone  back  to  the  scene  of  the  massacre 
of  the  caravan  where  Horn  had  buried  his  gold. 

Neale  had  absolutely  forgotten  the  buried  gold.  Prob 
ably  when  he  and  Larry  had  scoured  the  wild  hills  for 
trace  of  Allie  they  had  passed  down  the  valley  where  the 
treasure  had  been  hidden.  Slingerland  gave  the  same 
reason  for  his  oversight.  They  talked  about  the  gold  and 
planned,  when  the  railroad  reached  the  foot-hills,  to  go 
after  it. 

Both  Indians  and  buffalo  were  sighted  from  the  train 
before  the  trio  got  to  the  next  camp. 

"I  reckon  I  don't  like  thet,"  declared  Slingerland.  "I 
was  friendly  with  the  Sioux.  But  now  thet  I've  come  down 
hyar  to  kill  off  their  buffalo  fer  the  whites  they're  ag'in'  me. 
I  know  thet.  An'  I  allus  regarded  them  buffalo  as  Injun 
property.  If  it  wasn't  thet  I  seen  this  railroad  means  the 
end  of  the  buffalo,  an'  the  Indians,  too,  I'd  never  hev  done 
it.  Thet  I'll  swar." 

It  was  night  when  they  reached  their  destination.  How 
quiet  and  dark  after  Benton!  Neale  was  glad  to  get 
there.  He  wondered  if  he  could  conquer  his  unrest.  Would 
he  go  on  wandering  again?  He  doubted  himself  and  dis 
missed  the  thought.  Perhaps  the  companionship  of  his 
old  friends  and  the  anticipation  of  action  would  effect  a 
change  in  him. 

Neale  and  Larry  spent  the  night  in  Slingerland's  tent. 
Next  morning  the  trapper  was  ready  with  horses  at  an 
early  hour,  but,  owing  to  the  presence  of  Sioux  in  the  vicin 
ity,  it  was  thought  best  to  wait  for  the  work-train  and 
-ide  out  on  the  plains  under  its  escort. 

183 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

By  and  by  the  train,  with  its  few  cars  and  half  a  hundred 
workmen,  was  ready,  and  the  trapper  and  his  comrades 
rode  out  alongside.  Some  few  miles  from  camp  the 
train  halted  at  a  place  where  stone-work  and  filling  awaited 
the  laborers.  Neale  was  again  interested,  in  spite  of  him 
self.  Yet  his  love  for  that  railroad  was  quite  as  hopeless 
as  other  things  in  his  life. 

These  laborers  were  picked  men,  all  soldiers,  and  many 
Irish;  they  stacked  their  guns  before  taking  up  shovels 
and  bars. 

"Dom  me  if  it  ain't  me  ould  fri'nd  Neale!"  exclaimed  a 
familiar  voice. 

And  there  stood  Casey,  with  the  same  old  grin,  the  same 
old  black  pipe. 

Neale's  first  feeling  of  pleasure  at  seeing  the  old  flagman 
was  counteracted  by  one  of  dismay  at  the  possibility  of 
coming  in  contact  with  old  acquaintances.  It  would 
hurt  him  to  meet  General  Lodge  or  any  of  the  engineers 
who  had  predicted  a  future  for  him. 

Shane  and  McDermott  were  also  in  this  gang,  and  they 
slouched  forward. 

"It's  thot  gun-throwin'  cowboy  as  wuz  onct  goin'  to 
kill  Casey!"  exclaimed  McDermott,  at  sight  of  Larry. 

Neale,  during  the  few  moments  of  reunion  with  his 
old  comrades  of  the  survey,  received  a  melancholy  insight 
into  himself  and  a  clearer  view  of  them.  The  great  rail 
road  had  gone  on,  growing,  making  men  change.  He  had 
been  passed  by.  He  was  no  longer  a  factor.  Along  with 
many,  many  other  men,  he  had  retrograded.  The  splendid 
spirit  of  the  work  had  not  gone  from  him,  but  it  had 
ceased  to  govern  his  actions.  He  had  ceased  to  grow. 
But  these  uncouth  Irishmen,  they  had  changed.  In 
many  ways  they  were  the  same  slow,  loquacious,  quarreling 
trio  as  before,  but  they  showed  the  effect  of  toil,  of  fight, 
of  growth  under  the  great  movement  and  its  spirit — the 
thing  which  great  minds  had  embodied ;  and  these  laborers 
were  no  longer  ordinary  men.  Something  shone  out  of 

184 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

them.  Neale  saw  it.  He  felt  an  inexplicable  littleness 
in  their  presence.  They  had  gone  on;  he  had  been  left. 
They  would  toil  and  fight  until  they  filled  nameless  graves. 
He,  too,  would  find  a  nameless  grave,  he  thought,  but  he 
would  not  lie  in  it  as  one  of  these.  The  moment  was 
poignant  for  Neale,  exceedingly  bitter,  and  revealing. 

Slingerland  was  not  long  in  sighting  buffalo.  After 
making  a  careful  survey  of  the  rolling  country  for  lurking 
Indians  he  rode  out  with  Neale,  Larry,  and  two  other 
men — Brush  and  an  Irishman  named  Pat — who  were 
to  skin  the  buffalo  the  hunters  killed,  and  help  load  the 
meat  into  wagons  which  would  follow. 

"It  ain't  no  trick  to  kill  buffalo,"  Slingerland  was 
saying  to  his  friends.  "But  I  don't  want  old  bulls  an'  old 
cows  killed.  An'  when  you're  ridin'  fast  an'  the  herd  is 
bunched  it's  hard  to  tell  the  difference.  You  boys  stick 
close  to  me  an'  watch  me  first.  An'  keep  one  eye  peeled  fer 
Injuns!" 

Slingerland  approached  the  herd  without  alarming  it, 
until  some  little  red  calves  on  the  outskirts  of  the  herd 
became  frightened.  Then  the  herd  lumbered  off,  raising  a 
cloud  of  dust.  The  roar  of  hoofs  was  thunderous. 

"Ride!"  yelled  Slingerland. 

Not  the  least  interesting  sight  to  Neale  was  Larry 
riding  away  from  them.  He  was  whacking  the  buffalo 
on  the  rumps  with  his  bare  hand  before  Slingerland  and 
Neale  got  near  enough  to  shoot. 

At  the  trapper's  first  shot  the  herd  stampeded.  There 
after  it  took  fine  riding  to  keep  up,  to  choose  the  level 
ground,  and  to  follow  Slingerland 's  orders.  Neale  got  up 
in  the  thick  of  the  rolling  din  and  dust.  The  pursuit 
liberated  something  fierce  within  him  which  gave  him  a 
measure  of  freedom  from  his  constant  pain.  All  before  ! 
spread  the  great  bobbing  herd.  The  wind  whistled,  the 
dust  choked  him,  the  gravel  stung  his  face,  the  strong,  even 
action  of  his  horse  was  exhilarating.  He  lost  track  of 

13  185 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Larry,  but  he  stayed  close  to  Slingerland.  The  trappet 
kept  shooting  at  intervals.  Neale  saw  the  puffs  of  smoke, 
but  in  the  thundering  din  he  could  not  hear  a  report. 
It  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  select  the  kind  of  buffalo 
Slingerland  wanted  shot.  Neale  could  not  tell  one  from 
the  other.  He  rode  right  upon  their  flying  heels.  Unable, 
finally,  to  restrain  himself  from  shooting,  he  let  drive  and 
saw  a  beast  drop  and  roll  over.  Neale  rode  on. 

Presently  out  of  a  lane  in  the  dust  he  thought  he  saw 
Slingerland  pass.  He  reined  toward  the  side.  Larry  was 
riding  furiously  at  him,  and  Slingerland's  horse  was 
stretched  out,  heading  straight  away.  The  trapper  madly 
waved  his  arms.  Neale  spurred  toward  them.  Something 
was  amiss.  Larry's  face  flashed  in  the  sun.  He  whirled 
his  horse  to  take  Neale's  course  and  then  he  pointed. 

Neale  thrilled  as  he  looked.  A  few  hundred  rods  in  the 
rear  rode  a  band  of  Sioux,  coming  swiftly.  A  cloud  of  dust 
rose  behind  them.  They  had,  no  doubt,  been  hiding  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  grazing  buffalo,  lying  in  wait. 

As  Neale  closed  in  on  Larry  he  saw  the  cowboy's  keen 
glance  measuring  distance  and  speed. 

"We  shore  got  to  ride!"  was  what  Larry  apparently 
yelled,  though  the  sound  of  words  drifted  as  a  faint  whisper 
to  Neale.  But  the  roar  of  buffalo  hoofs  was  rapidly  di 
minishing. 

Then  Neale  realized  what  it  meant  to  keep  close  to  the 
cowboy.  Every  moment  Larry  turned  round  both  to  watch 
the  Indians  and  to  have  a  glance  at  his  comrade.  They 
began  to  gain  on  Slingerland.  Brush  was  riding  for  dear 
life  off  to  the  right,  and  the  Irishman,  Pat,  still  farther 
in  that  direction,  was  in  the  most  perilous  situation  of  all. 
Already  the  white  skipping  streaks  of  dust  from  bullets 
whipped  up  in  front  of  him.  The  next  time  Neale  looked 
back  the  Sioux  had  split  up;  some  were  riding  hard  after 
Brush  and  Pat;  the  majority  were  pursuing  the  other 
three  hunters,  cutting  the  while  a  little  to  the  right,  for 
Slingerland  was  working  round  toward  the  work-train,, 

186 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Neale  saw  the  smoke  of  the  engine  and  then  the  train.  It 
seemed  far  away.  And  he  was  sure  the  Indians  were 
gaining.  What  incomparable  riders!  They  looked  half 
naked,  dark,  gleaming,  low  over  their  mustangs,  feathers 
and  trappings  flying  in  the  wind — a  wild  and  panic-pro 
voking  sight. 

"Don't  ride  so  closet"  yelled  Larry.  "They're  spread- 
in'!" 

Neale  gathered  that  the  Indians  were  riding  farther 
apart  because  they  soon  expected  to  be  in  range  of  bullets; 
and  Larry  wanted  Neale  to  ride  farther  from  him  for  the 
identical  reason. 

Neale  saw  the  first  white  puff  of  smoke  from  a  rifle  of 
the  leader.  The  bullet  hit  far  behind.  More  shots  kept 
raising  the  dust,  the  last  time  still  a  few  yards  short. 

"Gawd!  Look!"  yelled  Larry.  "The  devils  hit  Pat's 
hoss!" 

Neale  saw  the  Irishman  go  down  with  his  horse,  plunge 
in  the  dust,  and  then  roll  over  and  lie  still. 

"They  got  him!"  he  yelled  at  Larry. 

"Ride  thet  hoss!"  came  back  grimly  and  appealingly 
from  the  cowboy. 

Neale  rode  as  he  had  never  before  ridden.  Fortunately 
his  horse  was  fresh  and  fast,  and  that  balanced  the 
driving  the  cowboy  was  giving  his  mount.  For  a  long 
distance  they  held  their  own  with  the  Sioux.  They  had  now 
gained  a  straightaway  course  for  the  work-train,  so  that 
with  the  Sioux  behind  they  had  only  to  hold  out  for  a  few 
miles.  Brush  appeared  as  well  off  as  they  were.  Slinger- 
iand  led  by  perhaps  a  hundred  feet,  far  over  to  the  leftt 
and  he  was  wholly  out  of  range. 

It  took  a  very  short  time  at  that  pace  to  cover  a  couple 
of  miles.  And  then  the  Indians  began  to  creep  up  closer 
and  closer.  Again  they  were  shooting.  Neale  heard  the 
reports  and  each  one  made  him  flinch  in  expectation 
of  feeling  the  burn  of  a  bullet.  Brush  was  now  turning 
to  fire  his  riflec 

187 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale  bethought  himself  of  his  own  Winchester,  which 
he  was  carrying  in  his  hand.  Dropping  the  rein  over  the 
horn  of  his  saddle,  he  turned  half  round.  How  close,  how 
red,  how  fierce  these  Sioux  were!  He  felt  his  hair  rise  stiff 
under  his  hat.  And  at  the  same  instant  a  hot  wrath  rushed 
over  him,  madness  to  fight,  to  give  back  blow  for  blow. 
Just  then  several  of  the  Indians  fired.  He  heard  the 
sharp  cracks,  then  the  spats  of  bullets  striking  the  ground, 
he  saw  the  little  streaks  of  dust  in  front  of  him.  Then  the 
whistle  of  lead.  That  made  him  shoot  in  return.  His 
horse  lunged  forward,  almost  throwing  him,  and  ran  the 
faster  for  his  fright.  Neale  heard  Larry  begin  to  shoot. 
It  became  a  running  duel  now,  with  the  Indians  scattering 
wide,  riding  low,  yelling  like  demons,  and  keeping  up  a 
continuous  volley.  They  were  well  armed  with  white 
men's  guns.  Neale  worked  the  lever  of  his  rifle  while  he 
looked  ahead  for  an  instant  to  see  where  his  horse  was 
running;  then  he  wheeled  quickly  and  took  a  snap  shot 
at  the  nearest  Indian,  no  more  than  three  hundred  yards 
distant  now.  He  saw  where  his  bullet,  going  wide,  struck 
up  the  dust.  It  was  desperately  hard  to  shoot  from  the 
back  of  a  scared  horse.  Neale  did  not  notice  that  Larry's 
shots  were  any  more  effective  than  his  own.  He  grew 
certain  that  the  Sioux  were  gaining  faster  now.  But  the 
work-train  was  not  far  away.  He  saw  the  workmen  on 
top  of  the  cars  waving  their  arms.  Rougher  ground, 
though,  on  this  last  stretch. 

Larry  was  drawing  ahead.  He  had  used  all  the  shells 
in  his  rifle  and  now  with  hand  and  spur  was  goading  his 


Suddenly  Neale  heard  the  soft  thud  of  lead  striking  flesh. 
His  horse  leaped  with  a  piercing  snort  of  terror,  and  Neale 
thought  he  was  going  down.  But  he  recovered,  and  went 
plunging  on,  still  swift  and  game,  though  with  uneven 
gait.  Larry  yelled.  His  red  face  flashed  back  over  his 
shoulder.  He  saw  something  was  wrong  with  Neve's  horse 
and  he  pulled  his  own. 

ttt 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

6SSave  your  own  life!"  yelled  Neale,  fiercely.  It  enraged 
him  to  see  the  cowboy  holding  back  to  let  him  come  up. 
But  he  could  not  prevent  it. 

"He's  hit!"  shouted  Larry. 

"Yes,  but  not  badly,"  shouted  Neale,  in  reply.  "Spread 
out!" 

The  cowboy  never  swerved  a  foot.  He  watched  Neale's 
horse  with  keen,  sure  eyes. 

"  He's  breakin' !    Mebbe  he  can't  last !" 

Bullets  whistled  all  around  Neale  now.  He  heard  them 
strike  the  stones  on  the  ground  and  sing  away;  he  saw 
them  streak  through  the  scant  grass;  he  felt  the  tug  at 
his  shoulder  where  one  cut  through  his  coat,  stinging  the 
skin.  That  touch,  light  as  it  was,  drove  the  panic  out  of 
him.  The  strange  darkness  before  his  eyes,  hard  to  see 
through,  passed  away.  He  wheeled  to  shoot  again,  and 
with  deliberation  he  aimed  as  best  he  could.  Yet  he  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  hit  flying  birds.  He  emptied  the 
Winchester. 

Then,  hunching  low  in  the  saddle,  Neale  hung  on. 
Slingerland  was  close  to  the  train;  Brush  on  his  side 
appeared  to  be  about  out  of  danger;  the  pursuit  had  nar 
rowed  down  to  Neale  and  Larry.  The  anger  and  the 
grimness  faded  from  Neale.  He  did  not  want  to  go  plung 
ing  down  in  front  of  those  lean  wild  mustangs,  to  be  ridden 
over  and  trampled  and  mutilated.  The  thought  sickened 
him.  The  roar  of  pursuing  hoofs  grew  distinct,  but  Neale 
did  not  look  back. 

Another  roar  broke  on  his  ear — the  clamor  of  the  Irish 
'soldier-laborers  as  they  yelled  and  fired. 

"Pull  him!  Pull  him!"  came  the  piercing  cry  from 
Larry. 

Neale  was  about  to  ride  his  frantic  horse  straight  into 
the  work-train.  Desperately  he  hauled  the  horse  up  and 
leaped  off.  Larry  was  down,  waiting,  and  his  mount  went 
plunging  away.  Bullets  were  pattering  against  the  sides 
of  the  cars,  from  which  puffed  streaks  of  flame  and  smoke. 

180 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Up  wid  yez,  lads!"  sang  out  a  cheery  voice.  Casey's 
grin  and  black  pipe  appeared  over  the  rim  of  the  car,  and  his 
big  hands  reached  down. 

One  quick  and  straining  effort  and  Neale  was  up,  over 
the  side,  to  fall  on  the  floor  in  a  pile  of  sand  and  gravel. 
AH  whirled  dim  round  him  for  a  second.  His  heart  labored. 
He  was  wet  and  hot  and  shaking. 

"Shure  yez  ain't  hit  now!"  exclaimed  Casey. 

Larry's  nervous  hands  began  to  slide  and  press  over 
Neale's  quivering  body. 

"No— I'm— all— safe!"  panted  Neale. 

The  engine  whistled  shrilly,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the 
Indians,  and  with  a  jerk  and  rattle  the  train  started. 

Neale  recovered  to  find  himself  in  a  novel  and  thrilling 
situation.  The  car  was  of  a  gondola  type,  being  merely  a 
flat-car,  with  sides  about  four  feet  high,  made  of  such 
thick  oak  planking  that  bullets  did  not  penetrate  it. 
Besides  himself  and  Larry  there  were  half  a  dozen  soldiers, 
all  kneeling  at  little  port-holes.  Neale  peeped  over  the 
rim.  In  a  long  thinned-out  line  the  Sioux  were  circling 
round  the  train,  hiding  on  the  off  sides  of  their  mustangs, 
and  shooting  from  these  difficult  positions.  They  were 
going  at  full  speed,  working  in  closer.  A  bullet,  striking 
the  rim  of  the  car  and  showering  splinters  in  Neale's  face, 
attested  to  the  fact  that  the  Sioux  were  still  to  be  feared, 
even  from  a  moving  fort.  Neale  dropped  back  and,  re 
loading  his  rifle,  found  a  hole  from  which  to  shoot.  He 
emptied  his  magazine  before  he  realized  it.  But  what 
with  his  trembling  hands,  the  jerking  of  the  train,  and 
the  swift  motion  of  the  Indians,  he  did  not  do  any  harm 
to  the  foe. 

Suddenly,  with  a  jolt,  the  train  halted. 
"  Blocked  ag'in,  b'gorra, ' '  said  Casey,  calmly.    "  Me  pipe's 
out.    Sandy,  gimme  a  motch." 

The  engine  whistled  two  shrill  blasts. 

"What's  that  for?"  asked  Neale,  quickly. 

*'  Them's  for  the  men  in  the  foist  car  to  pile  over  the 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

engine  an'  remove  obstruchtions  from  the  track,"  replied 
Casey. 

Neele  dared  to  risk  a  peep  over  the  top  of  the  car.  The 
Sioux  were  circling  closer  to  the  front  of  the  train.  All 
along  the  half-dozen  cars  ahead  of  Neale  puffs  of  smoke  and 
jets  of  flame  shot  out.  Heavy  volleys  were  being  fired. 
The  attack  of  the  savages  seemed  to  be  concentrating  for 
ward,  evidently  to  derail  the  engine  or  kill  the  engineer. 

Casey  pulled  Neale  down.  "Risky  fer  yez,"  he  said. 
"Use  a  port-hole  an'  foight." 

"My  shells  are  gone,"  replied  Neale. 

He  lay  well  down  in  the  car  then,  and  listened  to  the 
uproar,  and  watched  the  Irish  trio.  When  the  volleys  and 
the  fiendish  yells  mingled  he  could  not  hear  anything 
else.  There  were  intervals,  however,  when  the  uproar 
lulled  for  a  moment. 

Casey  got  his  black  pipe  well  lit,  puffed  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  and  picked  up  his  rifle. 

"Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!"  he  sang,  and  shoved  his  weapon 
through  a  port-hole.  He  squinted  over  the  breech. 

"Mac,  it's  the  same  bunch  as  attackted  us  day  before 
yisteddy,"  he  observed. 

"It  shure  ain't,"  replied  McDermott.  "There's  a 
million  of  thim  to-day." 

He  aimed  his  rifle  as  if  following  a  moving  object,  and 
fired. 

"Mac,  you  git  excited  in  a  foight.  Now  I  niver  do.  An' 
I've  seen  thot  pinto  hoss  an'  thot  dom'  redskin  a  lot  of  times. 
I'll  kill  him  yit." 

Casey  kept  squinting  and  aiming,  and  then,  just  as 
he  pressed  the  trigger,  the  train  started  with  a  sudden 
lurch. 

"Sp'iled  me  aim!  Thot  engineer's  savin'  of  the  Sooz 
tribe!  .  .  .  Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!  Drill,  ye  terriers, 
drill!  .  .  .  Shane,  I  don't  hear  yez  shootin'." 

"How'n  hell  can  I  shoot  whin  me  eye  is  full  of  blood?" 
demanded  Shane. 

191 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale  then  saw  blood  on  Shane's  face.  He  crawled 
quietly  to  the  Irishman. 

"Man,  are  you  shot?    Let  me  see.'* 

"  Jist  a  bullet  hit  me,  loike,"  replied  Shane. 

Neale  found  that  a  bullet,  perhaps  glancing  from  the 
wood,  had  cut  a  gash  over  Shane's  eye,  from  which  the 
blood  poured.  Shane's  hands  and  face  and  shirt  were 
crimson.  Neale  bound  a  scarf  tightly  over  the  wound. 

"Let  me  take  the  rifle  now,"  he  said. 

"Thanks,  lad.  I  ain't  hurted.  An'  hev  Casey  make  me 
loife  miserable  foriver?  Not  much.  He's  a  harrd  mon,  thot 
Casey." 

Shane  crouched  back  to  his  port-hole,  with  his  bloody 
bandaged  face  and  his  bloody  hands.  And  just  then  the 
train  stopped  with  a  rattling  crash. 

"Whin  we  git  beyond  thim  ties  as  was  scattered  along 
here  mebbe  we'll  go  on  in,"  remarked  McDermott. 

"Mac,  yez  looks  on  the  gloomy  side,"  replied  Casey. 
Then  quickly  he  aimed  the  shot.  "I  loike  it  better  whin 
we  ain't  movm',"  he  soliloquized,  with  satisfaction. 
"Thot  redskin  won't  niver  scalp  a  soldier  of  the  U.  P.  R. .  . . 
Drill,  ye  terriers!  Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!" 

The  engine  whistle  shrieked  out  and  once  more  the  din 
of  conflict  headed  to  the  front.  Neale  lay  there,  seeing  the 
reality  of  what  he  had  so  often  dreamed.  These  old  sol 
diers,  these  toilers  with  rail  and  sledge  and  shovel,  these 
Irishmen  with  the  rifles,  they  were  the  builders  of  the  great 
U.  P.  R.  Glory  might  never  be  theirs,  but  they  were  the 
battle-scarred  heroes.  They  were  as  used  to  fighting  as  to 
working.  They  dropped  their  sledges  or  shovels  to  run 
for  their  guns. 

Again  the  train  started  up  and  had  scarcely  gotten  under 
way  when  with  jerk  and  bump  it  stopped  once  more.  The 
conflict  grew  fiercer  as  the  Indians  became  more  desperate. 
But  evidently  they  were  kept  from  closing  in,  for  during 
the  thick  of  the  heaviest  volleying  the  engine  again  began 
to  puff  and  the  wheels  to  grind.  Slowly  the  train  moved 

192 


THE    U..P.    TRAIL 

on.  Like  hail  the  bullets  pattered  against  the  car.  Smoke 
drifted  away  on  the  wind. 

Neale  lay  there,  watching  these  cool  men  who  fought  off 
the  savages.  No  doubt  Casey  and  Shane  and  McDermott 
were  merely  three  of  many  thousands  engaged  in  building 
and  defending  the  U.  P.  R.  This  trio  liked  the  fighting, 
perhaps  better  than  the  toiling.  Casey  puffed  his  old 
black  pipe,  grinned  and  aimed,  shot  and  reloaded,  sang  his 
quaint  song,  and  joked  with  his  comrades,  all  in  the  same 
cool,  quiet  way.  If  he  knew  that  the  shadow  of  death 
hung  over  the  train,  he  did  not  show  it.  He  was  not  a 
thinker.  Casey  was  a  man  of  action.  Only  once  he  yelled, 
and  that  was  when  he  killed  the  Indian  on  the  pinto 
mustang. 

Shane  grew  less  loquacious  and  he  dropped  and  fumbled 
over  his  rifle,  but  he  kept  on  shooting.  Neale  saw  him 
feel  the  hot  muzzle  of  his  gun  and  shake  his  bandaged 
head.  The  blood  trickled  down  his  cheek. 

McDermott  plied  his  weapon,  and  ever  and  anon  he 
would  utter  some  pessimistic  word,  or  presage  dire  disaster, 
or  remind  Casey  that  his  scalp  was  destined  to  dry  in  a 
Sioux's  lodge,  or  call  on  Shane  to  hit  something  to  save 
his  life,  or  declare  the  engine  was  off  the  track.  He  rambled 
on.  But  it  was  all  talk.  The  man  had  gray  hairs  and  he 
was  a  born  fighter. 

This  time  the  train  gained  more  headway,  and  evi 
dently  had  passed  the  point  where  the  Indians  could  find 
obstructions  to  place  on  the  track.  Neale  saw  through  a 
port-hole  that  the  Sioux  were  dropping  back  from  the 
front  of  the  train  and  were  no  longer  circling.  Their  firing 
had  become  desultory.  Medicine  Bow  was  in  sight.  The 
engine  gathered  headway. 

" We'll  git  the  rest  of  the  day  off,"  remarked  Casey, 
complacently.  "Shane,  yez  are  dom' quiet  betoimes.  An' 
Mac,  I  shure  showed  yez  up  to-day." 

"Ye  did  not,"  retorted  McDermott.  "I  kilt  jist  twinty- 
nine  Sooz!" 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Jist  thorty  wus  moine.  An',  Mac,  as  they  wtis  only 
about  fifthy  of  thim,  yez  must  be  a  liar." 

The  train  drew  on  toward  Medicine  Bow.  Firing 
ceased.  Neale  stood  up  to  see  the  Sioux  riding  away. 
Their  ranks  did  not  seem  noticeably  depleted. 

" Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!"  sang  Casey,  as  he  wiped  his 
sweaty  and  begrimed  rifle.  "Mac,  how  many  Sooz  did 
Shane  kill?" 

"B'gorra,  he  ain't  said  yit,"  replied  McDermott.  "Say, 
Shane.  .  .  .  Casey!" 

Neale  whirled  at  the  sharp  change  of  tone. 

Shane  lay  face  down  on  the  floor  of  the  car,  his  bloody 
hands  gripping  his  rifle.  His  position  was  inert,  singularly 
expressive. 

Neale  strode  toward  him.  But  Casey  reached  him 
first.  He  laid  a  hesitating  hand  on  Shane's  shoulder. 

"Shane,  old  mon!"  he  said,  but  the  cheer  was  not  in  his 
voice. 

Casey  dropped  his  pipe!  Then  he  turned  his  comrade 
over.  Shane  had  done  his  best  and  his  last  for  the  U.  P.  R. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NEALE  and  Larry  and  Slingerland  planned  to  go  into 
the  hills  late  in  the  fall,  visit  Slingerland's  old  camp, 
and  then  try  to  locate  the  gold  buried  by  Horn.  For 
the  present  Larry  meant  to  return  to  Benton,  and  Neale, 
though  vacillating  as  to  his  own  movements,  decided  to 
keep  an  eye  on  the  cowboy. 

The  trapper's  last  words  to  Neale  were  interesting. 
''Son,"  he  said,  ''there's  a  feller  hyar  in  Medicine  Bow  who 
says  as  how  he  thought  your  pard  Larry  was  a  bad  cow- 
puncher  from  the  Pan  Handle  of  Texas." 

"Bad?"  queried  Neale. 

"Wai,  he  meant  a  gun-throwin'  bad  man,  I  take  it." 

"Don't  let  Reddy  overhear  you  say  it,"  replied  Neale, 
"and  advise  your  informant  to  be  careful.  I've  always 
had  a  hunch  that  Reddy  was  really  somebody." 

"Benton  '11  work  on  the  cowboy,"  continued  Slinger 
land,  earnestly.  "An',  son,  I  ain't  so  all-fired  sure  of  you." 

"  I'll  take  what  comes,"  returned  Neale,  shortly.  "  Good- 
by,  old  friend.  And  if  you  can  use  us  for  buffalo-hunting 
without  the  'dom'  Sooz,'  as  Casey  says,  why,  we'll  come." 

After  Slingerland  departed  Neale  carried  with  him  a 
memory  of  the  trapper's  reluctant  and  wistful  good-by. 
It  made  Neale  think — where  were  he  and  Larry  going? 
Friendships  in  this  wild  West  were  stronger  ties  than  he 
had  known  elsewhere. 

The  train  arrived  at  Benton  after  dark.  And  the 
darkness  seemed  a  windy  gulf  out  of  which  roared  yellow 
lights  and  excited  men.  The  tents,  with  the  dim  lights 
through  the  canvas,  gleamed  pale  and  obscure,  like  so 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

much  of  the  life  they  hid.  The  throngs  hurried,  the  dust 
blew,  the  band  played,  the  barkers  clamored  for  their 
trade. 

Neale  found  the  more  pretentious  hotels  overcrowded, 
and  he  was  compelled  to  go  to  his  former  lodgings,  where 
he  and  Larry  were  accommodated. 

"Now  we're  here,  what  '11  we  do?"  queried  Neale,  more 
to  himself.  He  felt  as  if  driven.  And  the  mood  he  hated 
and  feared  was  impinging  upon  his  mind. 

"Shore  we'll  eat,"  replied  Larry. 

"Then  what?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  we'll  see  what's  goin'  on  in  this  heah 
Benton." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Neale  reflected,  there  was  nothing 
to  do  that  he  wanted  to  do. 

"You-all  air  gettin'  the  blues,"  sa\d  Larry,  with  solici 
tude. 

"Red,  I'm  never  free  of  them." 

Larry  put  his  hands  on  Neale's  shoulder.  Demonstra 
tion  of  this  kind  was  rare  in  the  cowboy. 

"Pard,  are  we  goin'  to  see  this  heah  Benton,  an'  then 
brace,  an'  go  back  to  work?" 

"No.    I  can't  hold  a  job,"  replied  Neale,  bitterly. 

"You're  showin'  a  yellow  streak?  You're  done,  as  you 
told  Slingerland?  Nothin'  ain't  no  good?  .  .  .  Life's 
over,  fer  all  thet's  sweet  an'  right?  Is  thet  your  stand?" 

"Yes,  it  must  be,  Reddy,"  said  Neale,  with  scorn  of 
himself.  "But  you — it  needn't  apply  to  you." 

"I  reckon  I'm  sorry,"  rejoined  Larry,  ignoring  Neale's 
last  words.  "  I  always  hoped  you'd  get  over  Allie's  loss.  .  .  . 
You  had  so  much  to  live  fer." 

"Reddy,  I  wish  the  bullet  that  hit  Shane  to-day  had  hit 
me  instead.  .  .  .  You  needn't  look  like  that.  I  mean  it. 
To-day  when  the  Sioux  chased  us  my  hair  went  stiff  and 
my  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  I  ran  for  my  life  as  if  I  loved 
it.  But  that  was  my  miserable  cowardice.  .  .  .I'm  sick 
of  the  game." 

106 
' 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Are  you  in  daid  earnest?"  asked  Larry,  huskily. 

Neale  nodded  gloomily.  He  did  not  even  regret  the 
effect  of  his  speech  upon  the  cowboy.  He  divined  that 
jsomehow  the  moment  was  critical  and  fateful  for  Larry, 
but  he  did  not  care.  The  black  spell  was  enfolding  him. 
All  seemed  hard,  cold,  monstrous  within  his  breast.  He 
could  not  love  anything.  He  was  lost.  He  realized  the 
magnificent  loyalty  of  this  simple  Texan,  who  was  his  true 
friend. 

"Reddy,  for  God's  sake  don't  make  me  ashamed  to  look 
you  in  the  eyes,"  appealed  Neale.  "  I  want  to  go  on.  You 
know!" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  there  ain't  anythin'  to  hold  me  now," 
drawled  Larry.  He  had  changed  as  he  spoke.  He  had 
aged.  The  dry  humor  of  the  cowboy,  the  amiable  ease, 
were  wanting. 

"Oh,  forgive  my  utter  selfishness!"  burst  out  Neale. 
41  I'm  not  the  man  I  was.  But  don't  think  I  don't  love  you." 

They  went  out  together,  and  the  hum  of  riotous 
Benton  called  them;  the  lights  beckoned  and  the  mel 
ancholy  night  engulfed  them. 

Next  morning  late,  on  the  way  to  breakfast,  Neale 
encountered  a  young  man  whose  rough,  bronzed  face  some 
how  seemed  familiar. 

At  sight  of  Neale  this  young  fellow  brightened  and  he 
lunged  forward. 

"  Neale !  Lookin'  for  you  was  like  huntin'  for  a  needle  in  a 
haystack." 

Neale  could  not  place  him,  and  he  did  not  try  hard  for 
recognition,  for  that  surely  would  recall  his  former  rela 
tions  to  the  railroad. 

"I  don't  remember  you,"  replied  Neale. 

"I'll  bet  Larry  does,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  grin  at 
the  cowboy. 

"Shore.  Your  name's  Campbell  an*  you  was  a  line 
man  for  Baxter/'  returned  Larry. 

197 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

" Right  you  are,"  said  Campbell,  offering  his  hand  to 
Neale,  and  then  to  Larry.  He  appeared  both  glad  and 
excited. 

"I  guess  I  recall  you  now,"  said  Neale,  thoughtfully. 
"You  said — you  were  hunting  me?" 

"Well,  I  should  smile!"  returned  Campbell,  and  handed 
Neale  a  letter. 

Neale  tore  it  open  and  hastily  perused  its  contents.  It 
was  a  brief,  urgent  request  from  Baxter  that  Neale  should 
return  to  work.  The  words,  almost  like  an  order,  made 
Neale's  heart  swell  for  a  moment.  He  stood  there  staring 
at  the  paper.  Larry  read  the  letter  over  his  shoulder. 

"Pard,  shore  I  was  expectin'  jest  thet  there,  an'  I  say 
go!"  exclaimed  Larry. 

Neale  slowly  shook  his  head. 

Campbell  made  a  quick,  nervous  movement.  "Neale, 
I  was  to  say — tell —  There's  more  'n  your  old  job  waitin' 
for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  queried  Neale. 

"That's  all,  except  the  corps  have  struck  a  snag  out 
here  west  of  Benton.  It's  a  bad  place.  You  an'  Henney 
were  west  in  the  hills  when  this  survey  was  made.  It's  a 
deep  wash — bad  grade  an'  curves.  The  gang's  stuck. 
An'  Baxter  swore,  'We've  got  to  have  Neale  back  on  the 
job!'" 

"Where's  Henney?"  asked  Neale,  rather  thickly.  Camp 
bell's  words  affected  him  powerfully. 

"Henney  had  to  go  to  Omaha.  Boone  is  sick  at  Fort 
Fetterman.  Baxter  has  only  a  new  green  hand  out  there, 
an'  they've  sure  struck  a  snag." 

"That's  too  bad,"  replied  Neale,  still  thoughtfully. 
"Is — the  chief — is  General  Lodge  there?" 

"Yes.  There's  a  trooper  camp.  Colonel  Dillon  an* 
some  of  the  officers  have  their  wives  out  on  a  little  visit 
to  see  the  work.  They  couldn't  stand  Benton." 

"Well — you  thank  Baxter  and  tell  him  I'm  sorry  I  must 
refuse,"  said  Neale. 

108 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"You  won't  come!"  ejaculated  Campbell. 

Neale  shook  his  head.  Larry  reached  out  with  big, 
eager  hand. 

"See  heah,  pard,  I  reckon  you  will  go." 

Campbell  acted  strangely,  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  more, 
but  did  not  have  authority  to  do  so.  He  looked  dis 
mayed.  Then  he  said:  "All  right,  Neale.  Ill  take  your 
message.  But  you  can  expect  me  back." 

And  he  went  on  his  way. 

"Neale,  shore  there's  somethin'  in  the  wind,"  said 
Larry.  "Wai,  it  jest  tickles  me.  They  can't  build  the 
railroad  without  you." 

"Would  you  go  back  to  work?"  queried  Neale. 

"Shore  I  would  if  they'd  have  me.  But  I  reckon  thet 
little  run-in  of  mine  with  Smith  has  made  bad  feelin'. 
An'  come  to  think  of  thet,  if  I  did  go  back  I'd  only  have  to 
fight  some  of  Smith's  friends.  An'  I  reckon  I'd  better  not 
go.  It  'd  only  make  trouble  for  you." 

"Me!  .   .   .  You  heard  me  refuse." 

"Shore  I  heerd  you,"  drawled  Larry,  softly,  "but  you're 
goin'  back  if  I  have  to  hawg-tie  you  an'  pack  you  out  there 
on  a  hoss." 

Neale  said  no  more.  If  he  had  said  another  word  he 
would  have  betrayed  himself  to  his  friend.  He  yearned 
for  his  old  work.  To  think  that  the  engineer  corps  needed 
him  rilled  him  with  joy.  But  at  the  same  time  he  knew 
what  an  effort  it  would  take  to  apply  himself  to  any  task. 
He  hated  to  attempt  it.  He  doubted  himself.  He  was 
morbid.  All  that  day  he  wandered  around  at  Larry's 
heels,  half  oblivious  of  what  was  going  on.  After  dark 
he  slipped  away  from  his  friend  to  be  alone.  And  being 
alone  in  the  dark  quietness  brought  home  to  him  the 
truth  of  a  strange,  strong  growth,  out  of  the  depths  of  him, 
that  was  going  to  overcome  his  morbid  craving  to  be  idle, 
to  drift,  to  waste  his  life  on  a  haunting  memory. 

He  could  not  sleep  that  night,  and  so  was  awake  when 
Larry  lounged  in,  slow  and  heavy.  The  cowboy  was  half- 

199 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

drunk.  Neale  took  him  to  task,  and  they  quarreled.  Fi 
nally  Larry  grew  silent  and  fell  asleep.  After  that  Neale 
likewise  dropped  into  slumber. 

In  the  morning  Larry  was  again  his  old,  cool,  easy, 
reckless  self,  and  had  apparently  forgotten  Neale 's  sharp 
words.  Neale,  however,  felt  a  change  in  himself.  This 
was  the  first  morning  for  a  long  time  that  he  had  not 
hated  the  coming  of  daylight. 

When  he  and  Larry  went  out  the  sun  was  high.  For 
Neale  there  seemed  something  more  than  sunshine  in  the 
air.  At  sight  of  Campbell,  waiting  in  the  same  place  in 
which  they  had  encountered  him  yesterday,  Neale's  pulses 
quickened. 

Campbell  greeted  them  with  a  bright  smile.  "  I'm  back," 
he  said. 

"So  I  see,"  replied  Neale,  constrainedly. 

"I've  a  message  for  you  from  the  chief,"  announced 
Campbell. 

"The  chief!"  exclaimed  Neale. 

Larry  edged  closer  to  them,  with  the  characteristic  hitch 
at  his  belt,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"He  asks  as  a  personal  favor  that  you  come  out  to  see 
him,"  replied  Campbell. 

Neale  flushed.  "General  Lodge  asks  that!"  he  echoed?. 
There  was  a  slow  heat  stirring  all  through  him. 

"Yes.    Will  you  go?" 

"I— I  guess  I'll  have  to,"  replied  Neale.  He  did  not 
feel  that  he  was  deciding.  He  had  to  go.  But  this  did  not 
prove  that  he  must  take  up  his  old  work. 

Larry  swung  his  hand  on  Neale 's  shoulder,  almost 
staggering  him.  The  cowboy  beamed. 

"Go  in  to  breakfast,"  he  said.  "Order  for  me,  too. 
I'll  be  back." 

"You  want  to  hurry,"  rejoined  Campbell.  "We've  only 
a  half -hour  to  eat  an'  catch  the  work-train." 

Larry  strode  back  toward  the  lodging-house.  And  it 
was  Campbell  who  led  Neale  into  the  restaurant  and  COP* 

200 


THE   \J.    P.   TRAIL 

dered  the  meal.  Neale's  mind  was  not  in  a  whirl,  not 
dazed,  but  he  did  not  get  much  further  in  thought  than 
the  remarkable  circumstance  of  General  Lodge  sending  for 
him  personally.  Meanwhile  Campbell  rapidly  talked  about 
masonry,  road-beds,  washouts,  and  other  things  that  Neale 
heard  but  did  not  clearly  understand.  Then  Larry  re 
turned.  He  carried  Neale's  bag,  which  he  deposited  care 
fully  on  the  bench. 

"I  reckon  you  might  as  well  take  it  along,"  he  drawled. 

Neale  felt  himself  being  forced  along  an  unknown 
path. 

They  indulged  in  little  further  conversation  while  hur 
riedly  eating  breakfast.  That  finished,  they  sallied  forth 
toward  the  station.  Campbell  clambered  aboard  the  work- 
train. 

"Come  on,  Larry,"  he  said. 

And  Neale  joined  in  the  request.    "Yes,  come,"  he  said. 

"Wai,  seein'  as  how  I  want  you-all  to  get  on  an'  the 
railroad  built,  I  reckon  I'd  better  not  go,"  drawled  Larry. 
His  blue  eyes  shone  warm  upon  his  friend. 

"Larry,  I'll  be  back  in  a  day  or  so,"  said  Neale. 

"Aw,  now,  pard,  you  stay.  Go  back  on  the  job  an* 
stick,"  appealed  the  cowboy. 

"No.  I  quit  and  I'll  stay  quit.  I  might  help  out — for 
a  day — just  as  a  favor.  But — "  Neale  shook  his  head. 

"I  reckon,  if  you  care  anythin'  aboot  me,  you'll  shore 
stick." 

"Larry,  you'll  go  to  the  bad  if  I  leave  you  here  alone," 
protested  Neale. 

"Wai,  if  you  stay  we'll  both  go,"  replied  Larry,  sharply. 
He  had  changed  subtly.  "It's  in  me  to  go  to  hell — I 
reckon  I've  gone — but  that  ain't  so  for  you." 

"Two's  company,"  said  Neale,  with  an  attempt  at 
lightness.  But  it  was  a  pretense.  Larry  worried  him. 

"  Listen.  If  you  go  back  on  the  job — then  it  '11  be  all  right 
for  you  to  run  in  heah  to  see  me  once  in  a  while.  But  if 
you  throw  up  this  chance  I'll — " 

M  201 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Larry  paused.    His  ruddy  tan  had  faded  slightly. 

Neale  eyed  him,  aware  of  a  hard  and  tense  contraction 
of  the  cowboy's  throat. 

"Well,  what  '11  you  do?"  queried  Neale,  shortly. 

Larry  threw  back  his  head,  and  the  subtle,  fierce  tensity 
seemed  to  leave  him. 

"Wai,  the  day  you  come  back  I'll  clean  out  Stanton's 
place — jest  to  start  entertainin*  you,"  he  replied,  with  his 
slow  drawl  as  marked  as  ever  it  was. 

A  stir  of  anger  in  Neale's  breast  subsided  with  the  big, 
warm  realization  of  this  wild  cowboy's  love  for  him  and 
the  melancholy  certainty  that  Larry  would  do  exactly  as  he 
threatened. 

"Suppose  I  come  back  and  beat  you  all  up?"  suggested 
Neale. 

"Wai,  thet  won't  make  a  dam'  bit  difference,"  replied 
Larry,  seriously. 

Whereupon  Neale  soberly  bade  his  friend  good-by  and 
boarded  the  train. 

The  ride  appeared  slow  and  long,  dragged  out  by  in 
numerable  stops.  All  along  the  line  laborers  awaited  the 
train  to  unload  supplies.  At  the  end  of  the  line  there 
was  a  congestion  Neale  had  not  observed  before  in  all  the 
work.  Freight-cars,  loaded  with  stone  and  iron  beams 
and  girders  for  bridge-work,  piles  of  ties  and  piles  of  rails, 
and  gangs  of  idle  men  attested  to  the  delay  caused  by  an 
obstacle  to  progress.  The  sight  aggressively  stimulated 
Neale.  He  felt  very  curious  to  learn  the  cause  of  the 
setback,  and  his  old  scorn  of  difficulties  flashed  up. 

The  camp  Neale's  guide  led  him  to  was  back  some 
distance  from  the  construction  work.  It  stood  in  a  little 
valley  through  which  ran  a  stream.  There  was  one  large 
building,  low  and  flat,  made  of  boards  and  canvas,  adjoin 
ing  a  substantial  old  log  cabin;  and  clustered  around, 
though  not  close  together,  were  a  considerable  number  of 
tents.  Troopers  were  in  evidence,  some  on  duty  and 

202 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

many  idle.  In  the  background,  the  slopes  of  the  valley 
were  dark  green  with  pine  and  cedar, 

At  the  open  door  of  the  building  Neale  met  Baxter  face 
to  face,  and  that  worthy's  greeting  left  Neale  breathless 
and  aghast,  yet  thrilling  with  sheer  gladness. 

"What  're  you  up  against?"  asked  Neale. 

"The  boss  '11  talk  to  you.  Get  in  there!"  Baxter  replied, 
and  pushed  Neale  inside.  It  was  a  big  room,  full  of  smoke, 
noise,  men,  tables,  papers.  There  were  guns  stacked 
under  port-holes.  Some  one  spoke  to  Neale,  but  he  did 
not  see  who  it  was.  All  the  faces  he  saw  so  swiftly  appeared 
vague,  yet  curious  and  interested.  Then  Baxter  halted 
him  at  a  table.  Once  again  Neale  faced  his  chief.  Baxter 
announced  something.  Neale  did  not  hear  the  words 


General  Lodge  looked  older,  sterner,  more  worn.  He 
stood  up. 

"Hello,  Neale!"  he  said,  offering  his  hand,  and  the 
flash  of  a  smile  went  over  his  grim  face. 

"Come  in  here,"  continued  the  chief,  and  he  led  Neale 
into  another  room,  of  different  aspect.  It  was  small;  the 
walls  were  of  logs;  new  boards  had  been  recently  put  in 
the  floor;  new  windows  had  been  cut;  and  it  contained 
Indian  blankets,  chairs,  a  couch. 

Here  General  Lodge  bent  a  stern  and  piercing  gaze 
upon  his  former  lieutenant. 

"Neale,  you  failed  me  when  you  quit  your  job,"  he  said. 
"You  were  my  right-hand  man.  You  quit  me  in  my  hour 
of  need." 

"General,  I  —  I  was  furious  at  that  rotten  commissioner1 
deal,"  replied  Neale,  choking.  What  he  had  done  now 
seemed  an  offense  to  his  chief.  "My  work  was  ordered 
done  over!" 

"Neale,  that  was  nothing  to  what  I've  endured.  You 
should  have  grit  your  teeth  —  and  gone  on.  That  five  miles 
of  reconstruction  was  nothing  —  nothing." 

In  his  chief's  inflexible  voice,  in  the  worn,  shadowed  face^ 

aoa 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Neale  saw  the  great  burden,  and  somehow  he  was  re 
minded  of  Lincoln,  and  a  passion  of  remorse  seized  him 
Why  had  he  not  been  faithful  to  this  steadfast  man  who 
had  needed  him! 

"It  seemed — so  much  to  me,"  faltered  Neale. 

"Why  did  you  not  look  at  that  as  you  have  looked  at 
so  many  physical  difficulties — the  running  of  a  survey 
for  instance?" 

"I — I  guess  I  have  a  yellow  streak." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me?"  went  on  the  chief, 
Evidently  he  had  been  disappointed  in  Neale. 

"I  might  have  come — only  Larry,  my  friend — he  got 
into  it,  and  I  was  afraid  he'd  kill  somebody,"  replied 
Neale. 

"That  cowboy — he  was  a  great  fellow,  but  gone  wrong, 
Ke  shot  one  of  the  bosses — Smith." 

"Yes,  I  know.    Did— did  Smith  die?" 

"No,  but  he'll  never  be  any  more  good  for  the  U.  P.  R.r 
that's  certain.  .  .  .  Where  is  your  friend  now?" 

"I  left  him  in  Benton." 

"Benton!"  exclaimed  the  chief,  bitterly.  "I  am  re 
sponsible  for  Benton.  This  great  work  of  my  life  is  a  hell 
on  wheels,  moving  on  and  on.  .  .  .  Your  cowboy  friend 
has  no  doubt  found  his  place — and  his  match — in  Benton'" 

"Larry  has  broken  loose  from  me — from  any  last  re^ 
straint." 

"Neale,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

And  at  that  Neale  dropped  his  head. 

"Idling  in  the  camps — drifting  from  one  place  to  the 
next — drinking,  gambling,  eh?" 

"  I'm  ashamed  to  say,  sir,  that  of  late  I  have  been  doing 
just  those  things,"  replied  Neale,  and  he  raised  his  gaze  to 
his  chief's. 

"But  you  haven't  been  associating  with  those  camp 
women!"  exclaimed  General  Lodge,  with  his  piercing 
eyes  dark  on  Neale. 

"No!"  cried  Neale.    The  speech  had  hurt  him, 

204 


THE   U.    P.  TRAIL 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that — gladder  than  you  can  guess. 
I  was  afraid —  But  no  matter.  .  .  .  What  you  did  do  is 
bad  enough.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed.  A  young  man 
with  your  intelligence,  your  nerve,  your  gifts!  I  have  not 
had  a  single  man  whose  chances  compared  with  yours.  If 
you  had  stuck  you'd  be  at  the  head  of  my  engineer  corps 
right  now.  Baxter  is  played  out.  Boone  is  ill.  Henney 
had  to  take  charge  of  the  shops  in  Omaha.  .  .  .  And  you, 
with  fortune  and  fame  awaiting  jou,  throw  up  your  job 
to  become  a  bum,  ...  to  drink  end  gamble  away  your 
life  in  these  rotten  camps!" 

General  Lodge's  scorn  flayed  Neale. 

"Sir,  you  may  not  know  I— I  lost  some  one — very  dear 
to  me.  After  that  I  didn't  seem  to  care."  Neale  turned 
to  the  window.  He  was  ashamed  of  what  blurred  his  eyes. 
"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that — I'd  never  have  failed  you." 

The  chief  strode  to  Neale  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"Son,  I  believe  you.  Maybe  I've  been  a  little  hard.  Let's 
forget  it."  His  tone  softened  and  there  was  a  close  pres 
sure  of  his  hand.  "The  thing  is  now — will  you  come  back 
on  the  job?" 

"Baxter's  note — Campbell  said  they'd  struck  a  snag 
here.  You  mean  help  them  get  by  that?" 

"Snag!  I  guess  it  is  a  snag.  It  bids  fair  to  make  all  our 
labor  and  millions  of  dollars — wasted.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not 
asking  you  to  come  back  just  to  help  us  over  this  snag. 
I  mean  will  you  come  back  for  good — and  stick?" 

Neale  was  lifted  out  of  the  gloom  into  which  memory 
had  plunged  him.  He  turned  to  his  chief  and  found  him 
another  person.  There  was  a  light  on  his  face  and  eager 
ness  on  his  lips,  and  the  keen,  stern  eyes  were  soft. 

"Son,  will  you  come  back — stand  by  me  till  the  finish?" 
repeated  General  Lodge,  his  voice  deep  and  full.  There 
was  more  here  than  just  the  relation  of  employer  to  hig 
lieutenant. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'll  come  back,"  replied  Neale,  in  low  voice 

Their  hands  met. 

205 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

6 Good!"  exclaimed  the  chief. 

Then  he  deliberately  took  out  his  watch  and  studied  it. 
His  hand  trembled  slightly.  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes 
again  to  Neale's  face. 

"I'll  call  you—later,"  he  said.  "You  stay  here.  I'll  send 
some  one  in." 

With  that  he  went  out. 

Neale  remained  standing,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  gray-green 
slope,  seen  through  the  window.  He  seemed  a  trifle  un 
steady  on  his  feet,  and  he  braced  himself  with  a  knee 
against  the  couch.  His  restraint,  under  extreme  agitation, 
began  to  relax.  A  flooding  splendid  thought  filled  his 
mind — his  chief  had  called  him  back  to  the  great  work. 

Presently  the  door  behind  him  opened  and  closed  very 
softly.  Then  he  heard  a  low,  quick  gasp.  Some  one  had 
entered.  Suddenly  the  room  seemed  strange,  full,  charged 
with  terrible  portent.  And  he  turned  as  if  a  giant  hand 
had  heavily  swung  him  around. 

It  was  not  light  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  yet  he 
saw  a  slight  figure  of  a  girl  backed  against  the  door.  Her 
outline  was  familiar.  Haunting  ghost  of  his  dreams !  Be 
wildered  and  speechless,  he  stared,  trembling  all  over. 
The  figure  moved,  swayed.  A  faint,  sweet  voice  called, 
piercing  his  heart  like  a  keen  blade.  All  of  a  sudden  he 
had  gone  mad,  he  thought;  this  return  to  his  old  work 
had  disordered  his  mind.  The  tremor  of  his  body  succeeded 
to  a  dizziness;  his  breast  seemed  about  to  burst. 

"Neate!"  called  the  sweet  voice.  She  was  coming 
toward  him  swiftly.  "It's  Allie — alive  and  well!" 

Neale  felt  lifted,  as  if  by  invisible  wings.  His  limbs  were 
useless — had  lost  strength  and  feeling.  The  room  whirled 
around  him,  and  in  that  whirl  appeared  Allie  Lee's  face. 
Alive — flushed — radiant!  Recognition  brought  a  madden- 
ing  check — a  shock — and  Neale's  sight  darkened.  Tender, 
fluttering  hands  caught  him;  soft  strong  arms  enfolded  him 
convulsively. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NEALE  seemed  to  come  into  another  world — a  para 
dise.      His  eyes  doubted  the  exquisite  azure  blue — 
the  fleecy  cloud — the  golden  sunshine. 

There  was  a  warm,  wet  cheek  pressed  close  to  his,  bright 
chestnut  strands  of  hair  over  his  face,  tight  little  hands 
clutching  his  breast.  He  scarcely  breathed  while  he  realized 
that  Allie  Lee  lived.  Then  he  felt  so  weak  that  he  could 
hardly  move. 

"Allie — you're  not  dead?"  he  whispered. 

With  a  start  she  raised  her  head.  It  was  absolutely  the 
face  of  Allie  Lee. 

"I'm  the  livest  girl  you  ever  saw,"  she  replied,  with  a 
little  low  laugh  of  joy. 

"Allie — then  you're  actually  alive — safe — here!"  he  ex 
claimed,  in  wild  assurance. 

"Yes — yes.  .  .  .  With  you  again!  Isn't  it  glorious? 
But,  oh!  I  gave  you  a  shock.  You  frightened  me  so. 
Neale,  are  you  well?" 

"I  wasn't — but  I  am  now." 

He  trembled  as  he  gazed  at  her.  Yes,  it  was  Allie's 
face — incomparable,  unforgetable.  She  might  have  been  a 
little  thin  and  strained.  But  time  and  whatever  she  had 
endured  had  only  enhanced  her  loveliness.  No  harm  had 
befallen  her — that  was  written  in  the  white  glow  of  her 
face,  in  the  violet  eyes,  dark  and  beautiful,  with  the  brave 
soul  shining  through  their  haunting  shadows,  in  the  per 
fect  lips,  tremulous  and  tender  with  love. 

"Neale,  they  told  me  you  gave  up  your  work — were 
going  to  the  bad,"  she  said,  with  an  eloquence  of  distress 
changing  her  voice  and  expression. 

207 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Yes.  Allie  Lee,  I  loved  you  so  well — that  after  I  lost 
you — I  cared  for  nothing." 

"You  gave  up — " 

"Allie,"  he  interrupted,  passionately,  "don't  talk  of 
me!  .  .  .  You  haven't  kissed  me!" 

Allie  blushed.    "I  haven't?  .    .    .  That's  all  you  know!" 

"Have  you?" 

"Yes  I  have — I  have.  .  .  .  I  was  afraid  I'd  strangled  you!" 

"  I  never  felt  it.  I  lost  all  sense  of  feeling.  .  .  .  Kiss 
me  now!  Prove  you're  alive  and  love  me  still!" 

And  then  presently,  when  Neale  caught  his  breath 
again,  it  was  to  whisper,  "Precious  Allie!" 

"Am  I  alive?  Do  I  love  you?"  she  whispered,  her  eyes 
like  purple  stars,  her  face  flooded  with  a  dark  rose  color. 

"I'm  forced  to  believe  it,  but  you  must  prove  it  often," 
he  replied.  Then  he  drew  her  to  a  seat  beside  him.  "I've 
had  many  dreams  of  you,  yet  not  one  like  this.  .  .  .  How 
is  it  you  are  alive?  By  what  Providence?  ...  I  shall 
pray  to  Providence  all  my  life.  How  do  you  come  to  be 
here?  Tell  me,  quick." 

She  leaned  close  against  him.  "  That's  easy,"  she  replied. 
"  Only  sometime  I  want  to  tell  you  all — everything.  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember  the  four  ruffians  who  visited  Slinger- 
land's  cabin  one  day  when  we  were  all  there?  Well,  they 
came  back  one  day,  the  first  time  Slingerland  ever  left  me 
alone.  They  fired  the  cabin  and  carried  me  off.  Then  they 
fought  among  themselves.  Two  were  killed.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  get  on  a  horse  and  run.  Just  as  I  was  ready 
I  spied  Indians  riding  down.  I  had  to  shoot  the  ruffian 
Frank.  But  I  didn't  kill  him.  Then  I  got  on  a  horse  and 
tried  to  ride  away.  The  Indians  captured  me — took  me 
to  their  camp.  There  an  Indian  girl  freed  me — led  me  away 
at  night.  I  found  a  trail  and  walked — oh,  nights  and 
days  it  seemed.  Then  I  fell  in  with  a  caravan.  I  thought 
I  was  saved.  But  the  leader  of  that  caravan  turned  out  to 
be  Durade." 

208 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Durade!"  echoed  Neale,  intensely. 

"Yes.  He  was  traveling  east.  He  treated  me  well, 
but  threatened  me.  When  we  reached  the  construction 
camp,  somewhere  back  there,  he  started  his  gambling- 
place.  One  night  I  escaped.  I  walked  all  that  night — 
all  the  next  day.  And  I  was  about  ready  to  drop  when  I 
found  this  camp.  It  was  night  again.  I  saw  the  lights. 
They  took  me  in.  Mrs.  Dillon  and  the  other  women  were 
so  kind,  so  good  to  me.  I  told  them  very  little  about  my 
self.  I  only  wanted  to  be  hidden  here  and  have  them  send 
for  you.  Then  they  brought  General  Lodge,  your  chief,  to  see 
me.  He  was  kind,  too.  He  promised  to  get  you  here.  It 
has  been  a  whole  terrible  week  of  waiting.  .  .  .  But  now — " 

"Allie,"  burst  out  Neale,  "they  never  told  me  a  word 
about  you — never  gave  me  a  hint.  They  sent  for  me  to 
come  back  to  my  job.  I  could  have  come  a  day  sooner — 
the  day  Campbell  found  me.  .  .  .  Oh!" 

"I  know  they  did  not  find  you  at  once.  And  I  learned 
yesterday  they  had  located  you.  That  eased  my  mind. 
A  day  more  or  less — what  was  that?  .  .  .  But  they  were 
somehow  strange  about  you.  Then  Mrs.  Dillon  told  me 
how  the  chief  had  been  disappointed  in  you — how  he  had 
needed  you — how  he  must  have  you  back." 

"Good  Lord!  Getting  me  back  would  have  been  easy 
enough  if  they  had  only  told  me!"  exclaimed  Neale,  im 
patiently. 

"  Dear,  maybe  that  was  just  it.  I  suspect  General  Lodge 
cared  enough  for  you  to  want  you  to  come  back  to  your 
job  for  your  sake — for  his  sake — for  sake  of  the  railroad. 
And  not  for  me." 

"Aha!"  breathed  Neale,  softly.  "I  wonder i  .  .  .  Allie, 
how  cheap,  how  little  I  felt  awhile  ago,  when  he  talked  to 
me.  I  never  was  so  ashamed  in  my  life.  He  called  me.  .  .  . 
But  that's  over.  .  .  .  You  said  Durade  had  you.  Allie, 
that  scares  me  to  death." 

"It  scares  me,  too,"  she  replied.  "For  I'm  in  more, 
danger  hidden  here  than  when  he  had  me." 

209 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Oh  no!    How  can  that  be?" 

"He  would  kill  me  for  running  away,"  she  shuddered, 
paling.  "But  while  I  was  with  him,  obedient — I  don't 
think  he  would  have  done  me  harm.  I'm  more  afraid  now 
than  when  I  was  his  prisoner." 

"I'll  take  a  bunch  of  soldiers  and  go  after  Durade,"  said 
Neale,  grimly. 

"No.  Don't  do  that.  Let  him  alone.  Just  get  me 
away  safely,  far  out  of  his  reach." 

"But,  Allie,  that's  not  possible  now,"  declared  Neale. 
"I'm  certainly  not  going  to  lose  sight  of  you,  now  I've  got 
you  again.  And  I  must  go  back  to  work.  I  promised." 

"I  can  stay  here — or  go  along  with  you  to  other  camps, 
and  be  careful  to  veil  myself  and  hide." 

"But  that's  not  safe — not  the  best  plan,"  protested 
Neale.  Then  he  gave  a  start;  his  face  darkened.  "I'll  put 
Larry  King  on  Durade's  trail." 

"Oh  no,  Neale!  Don't  do  that!  Please  don't  do  that! 
Larry  would  kill  him." 

"I  rather  guess  Larry  would.    And  why  not?" 

"  I  don't  want  Durade  killed.  It  would  be  dreadful.  He 
never  hurt  me.  Let  him  alone.  After  all,  he  seems  to  be  the 
only  father  I  ever  knew.  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  him.  I 
despise  him.  .  .  .  But  let  him  live.  .  .  .  He  will  soon 
forget  me.  He  is  mad  to  gamble.  This  railroad  of  gold  is 
a  rich  stake  for  him.  He  will  not  last  long,  nor  will  any  of 
his  kind." 

Neale  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "It  doesn't  seem  wise 
to  me — letting  him  go.  ...  Allie,  does  he  use  his  right 
name — Durade  ?" 

"No." 

"What  does  he  look  like?  You  described  him  once  to 
me,  but  I've  forgotten." 

Allie  resolutely  refused  to  tell  him  and  once  more  en 
treated  Neale  to  let  well  enough  alone,  to  keep  her  hidden 
from  the  mob,  and  not  to  seek  Durade. 

"He  has  a  bad  gang,"  she  added.     "They  might  kill 

2IO 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

you.    And  do  you — you  think  I'd — ever  be — able  to  live 
longer  without  you?" 

Whereupon  Neale  forgot  all  about  Durade  and  vengeance, 
and  everything  but  the  nearness  and  sweetness  of  this 
girl. 

"When  shall  we  get  married?"  he  asked,  presently. 

This  simple  question  caused  Allie  to  avert  her  face,  and 
just  at  that  moment  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door. 
Allie  made  a  startled  movement. 

"Come  in,"  called  Neale. 

It  was  his  chief  who  entered.  General  Lodge's  face  wore 
the  smile  that  softened  it.  Then  it  showed  surprise. 

"Neale,  you're  transfigured!" 

Neale's  laugh  rang  out.  "Behold  cause — even  for  that," 
he  replied,  indicating  the  blushing  Allie. 

"Son,  I  didn't  have  to  play  my  trump  card  to  fetch  you 
back  to  work,"  said  the  general. 

"If  you  only  had!"  exclaimed  Neale. 

Allie  got  up,  shyly  and  with  difficulty  disengaged  her 
hand  from  Neale's. 

"You — you  must  want  to  talk,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
fled. 

"A  wonderful  girl,  Neale.  We're  all  in  love  with  her," 
declared  the  chief.  "She  dropped  down  on  us  one  night — 
asked  for  protection  and  you.  She  does  not  talk  much.  All 
we  know  is  that  she  is  the  girl  you  saved  back  in  the  hills 
and  has  been  kept  a  prisoner.  Here  she  hides,  by  day  and 
night.  She  will  not  talk.  But  we  know  she  fears  some  one. ' ' 

"Yes,  indeed  she  does,"  replied  Neale,  seriously.  And 
then  briefly  he  told  General  Lodge  Allie's  story  as  related 
by  her. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  the  chief.  "If  that  doesn't  beat  me! 
.  .  .  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'll  keep  her  close.  Surely  she  will  be  safe  here — hid 
den — with  the  soldiers  about." 

"Of  course.  But  you  can  never  tell  what's  going  to 
happen.  If  she  could  be  gotten  to  Omaha — now — " 

211 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"No — no,"  replied  Neale,  almost  violently.  He  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  parting  with  Allie,  now  just  when 
he  had  found  her.  Then  the  chief's  suggestion  had  reminded 
Neale  of  the  possibility  of  Allie's  father  materializing.  And 
the  idea  was  attended  by  a  vague  dread. 

"I  appreciate  how  you  feel.  Don't  worry  about  it, 
Neale." 

"What's  this  snag  the  engineers  are  up  against?"  queried 
Neale,  abruptly  changing  the  subject. 

"We're  stuck.  It's  an  engineering  problem  that  I 
hope — and  expect  you  to  solve." 

"Who  ran  this  survey  in  the  first  place?" 

"It's  Baxter's  work — with  the  men  he  had  under  him 
then,"  replied  the  chief.  "Somebody  blundered.  His 
later  surveys  make  over  one  hundred  feet  grade  to  the 
mile.  That  won't  do.  We've  got  to  get  down  to  ninety 
feet.  Baxter's  stuck.  The  new  surveyor  is  floundering. 
Oh,  it's  bad  business.  Neale  ...  I  don't  sleep  of 
nights." 

"No  wonder,"  returned  Neale,  and  he  felt  suddenly  the 
fiery  grip  of  his  old  state  of  mind  toward  all  the  engineer 
ing  obstacles.  "I'm  going  out  to  look  over  the  ground." 

"  I'll  send  Baxter  and  some  of  the  men  with  you." 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  Neale.  "I'd  rather — take  up  my 
job  all  alone  out  there." 

The  chief's  acquiescence  was  silent  and  eloquent. 

Neale  strode  outdoors.  The  color  of  things,  the  feel  of 
wind,  the  sounds  of  men  and  horses  all  about  him,  had 
remarkably  changed,  just  as  he  himself  had  incalculably 
changed;  General  Lodge  had  said — transfigured! 

He  walked  down  to  the  construction  line  and  went  among 
the  idle  men  and  the  strings  of  cars,  the  piles  of  rails  and 
the  piles  of  ties.  He  seemed  to  absorb  in  them  again.  Then 
he  walked  down  the  loose,  unspiked  ties  to  where  they  ended, 
and  so  on  along  the  graded  road-bed  to  the  point  where  his 
quick  eyes  recognized  the  trouble.  They  swiftly  took  in 

212 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

what  had  been  done  and  what  had  been  attempted. 
How  much  needless  work  begun  and  completed  in  the  build 
ing  of  the  railroad!  He  clambered  around  in  the  sand, 
up  and  down  the  ravine,  over  the  rocks,  along  the  stream 
for  half  a  mile,  and  it  was  laborious  work.  But  how  good 
to  pant  and  sweat  once  more!  He  retraced  his  steps. 
Then  he  climbed  the  long  slope  of  the  hill.  The  wind  up 
there  blew  him  a  welcome,  and  the  sting  and  taste  of  dust 
were  sweet.  His  step  was  swift.  And  then  again  he 
loitered,  with  keen,  roving  glance  studying  the  lay  of  the 
ground.  Neale's  was  the  deductive  method  of  arriving  at 
conclusions.  To-day  he  was  inspired.  And  at  length  there 
blazed  suddenly  his  solution  to  the  problem. 

Then  he  gazed  over  the  rolling  hills  with  contemplative 
and  dreamy  vision.  They  were  beautiful,  strong,  change 
less — and  he  divined  now  how  they  might  have  helped 
him  if  he  had  only  looked  with  seeing  eyes. 

Late  that  afternoon,  tired  and  dusty,  he  tramped  into 
the  big  office-room.  General  Lodge  was  pacing  the  floor, 
chewing  at  his  cigar;  Baxter  sat  over  blue-print  papers, 
and  his  face  was  weary;  Colonel  Dillon,  Campbell,  and 
several  other  young  men  were  there. 

Neale  saw  that  his  manner  of  entrance,  or  the  look  of  him, 
or  both  together,  struck  these  men  singularly.  He  laughed. 

"It  was  great — going  back  to  my  job!"  he  exclaimed. 

Baxter  sat  up.  General  Lodge  threw  away  his  cigar 
with  an  action  that  suggested  a  sudden  vitalizing  of  a  weary 
but  indomitable  spirit. 

"Did  you  find  the  snag  we've  struck?"  asked  Baxter, 
slowly. 

"No,  "replied  Neale. 

"Aha!  Well,  I'll  have  to  take  you  out  to-morrow  and 
show  you." 

The  chief's  keen  eyes  began  to  shine  as  they  studied 
Neale. 

"No,  couldn't  find  any  snag,  Baxter,  old  boy,  .  .  .  and 
the  reason  is  because  there's  no  snag  to  find." 

213 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Baxter  stared  and  his  worn  face  reddened.  "Boy,  some- 
thin's  gone  to  your  head,"  he  retorted. 

"Wai,  I  should  smile,  as  Larry  would  say." 

Baxter  pounded  the  table.  "Neale,  it's  no  smiling 
matter,"  he  said,  harshly.  "You  come  back  here,  your 
eye  and  mind  fresh,  but  even  so,  it  can't  be  you  make 
light  of  this  difficulty.  You  can't — you  can't — " 

"But  I  do!"  cried  Neale,  his  manner  subtly  changing. 

Baxter  got  up.  His  shaking  hand  rustled  a  paper  he 
held.  "I  know  you — of  old.  You've  tormented  me 
often.  You're  a  boy.  .  .  .  But  here — this — this  thing  has 
stumped  me.  I've  had  no  one  to  help  .  .  .  and  I'm 
getting  old — this  damned  railroad  has  made  me  old.  If — 
if  you  saw  a  way  out — tell  me — " 

Baxter  faltered.  Indeed  he  had  aged.  Neale  saw  the 
growth  of  the  great  railroad  with  its  problems  in  the  face 
and  voice  of  the  old  engineer. 

"Listen,"  said  Neale,  swiftly.  "A  half-mile  down  from 
where  you  struck  your  snag  we'll  change  the  course  of  that 
stream.  .  .  .  We'll  change  the  line — set  a  compound 
curve  by  intersections — and  we'll  get  much  less  than  a 
ninety-foot  grade  to  the  mile." 

Then  he  turned  to  General  Lodge.  "Chief,  Baxter  had 
so  many  problems — so  much  on  his  mind — that  he  couldn't 
think.  .  .  .  The  work  will  go  on  to-morrow." 

"But,  Neale,  you  went  out  without  any  instrument," 
protested  the  chief. 

"I  didn't  need  one." 

"Son,  are  you  sure?  This  has  been  a  stumper.  What 
you  say — seems  too  good — too — " 

"Am  I  sure?"  cried  Neale,  gaily.  "Look  at  Baxter's 
face!" 

Indeed,  one  look  at  the  old  engineer  was  confirmation 
enough. 

Neale  was  made  much  of  that  night.  The  chief  and  his 
engineers,  the  officers  and  their  wives,  all  vied  with  one 

214 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

another  in  their  efforts  to  celebrate  Neale's  return  to  work. 
The  dinner  party  was  merry,  yet  earnest,  too.  Baxter 
made  a  speech,  his  fine  old  face  alight  with  gladness  as  he 
extolled  youth  and  genius  and  the  inspiring  power  of 
bright  eyes.  Neale  had  to  answer.  His  voice  was  deep 
and  full  as  he  said  that  Providence  had  returned  him  to  his 
work  and  to  a  happiness  he  had  believed  lost.  He  denied 
the  genius  attributed  to  him,  but  not  the  inspiring  power  of 
bright  eyes.  And  he  paid  a  fine  tribute  to  Baxter. 

Through  all  this  gaiety  and  earnestness  Allie's  lips  were 
mute,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  and  paled  by  turns.  It  was 
an  ordeal  for  her,  both  confusing  and  poignant.  At  last 
she  and  Neale  got  away  alone  to  the  cabin  room  where 
they  had  met  earlier  in  the  day. 

They  stood  at  the  open  window,  close  together,  hands 
locked,  gazing  out  over  the  quiet  valley.  The  moon  was 
full,  and  broad  belts  of  silver  light  lay  in  strong  contrast  to 
black  shadows.  The  hour  was  late.  The  sentries  paced 
their  beats. 

Allie  stirred  and  lifted  her  face  to  Neale's.  "What  they 
said  about  you  makes  me  almost  as  happy  as  to  see  you 
again,"  she  said. 

"They  said!    Who?    What?"  asked  Neale,  dreamily. 

"Oh,  I  heard,  I  remember!  .  .  .  For  instance,  Mr. 
Baxter  said  you  had  genius." 

"He  was  just  eulogizing  me,"  replied  Neale.  "What  he 
said  about  your  bright  eyes  was  more  to  the  point,  I 
think." 

"  It's  sweet  to  believe  I  could  inspire  you.  But  I  know — 
and  you  know — that  if  I  had  not  been  here  you  would  have 
seen  through  the  engineering  problem  just  the  same.  .  .  . 
Now,  be  honest." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  replied  Neale,  frankly.  "Though  per 
haps  not  so  swiftly.  I  could  see  through  stone  to-day." 

"And  that  proves  your  worth.  Your  duty  it  always 
has  been — to  stand  by  your  chief.  Oh,  I  love  him!  .  .  . 

215 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  seems  so  much  younger  to-day.  You  have  encouraged 
them  all.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear  Neale,  there  is  something  noble 
in  what  you  can  do  for  him.  Can't  you  see  it?" 

"Yes,  Allie,  indeed  I  do." 

"  Promise  me — never  to  fail  him  again." 

"I  promise.'* 

"No  matter  what  happens  to  me.  I  am  alive,  safe, 
well  .  .  .  and  I'm  yours.  But  something  might  happen — 
you  can  never  tell,  and  I  don't  refer  particularly  to  Durade 
and  his  gang.  I  mean  life  and  everything  is  uncertain 
out  here.  So  promise  me,  no  matter  what  happens,  that 
you'll  stand  by  your  work." 

"I  promise  that,  too,"  replied  Neale,  huskily.  "But 
you  frighten  me.  You  fear — for  yourself?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  protested. 

"Fate  could  not  be  so  brutal — to  take  you  from  me. 
Anyway,  I'll  not  think  of  it." 

"Do  not.  Nor  will  I.  ...  I  wouldn't  have  asked 
you — only  this  night  has  shown  me  your  opportunity. 
I'm  so  proud — so  proud.  You'll  be  great  some  day." 

"Well,  if  you're  so  proud — if  you  think  I'm  so  wonderful 
— why  haven't  you  rewarded  me  for  that  little  job  to-day?" 

"Reward  you!  .  .  .  How?" 

"How  do  you  suppose?" 

She  was  pale,  eloquent,  grave.  But  he  was  low-voiced, 
gay,  intense. 

"Dear  Neale — what — what  can  I  do?  .  .  .1  have 
nothing  ...  so  big  a  thing  as  you  did  to-day!" 

' '  Child !    You  can  kiss  me. " 

Allie's  sweet  gravity  changed.  She  smiled.  "  I  shore  can, 
as  Larry  used  to  say.  That's  my  privilege.  But  you  spoke 
of  a  reward.  My  kisses — they  are  yours — and  as  many 
as  the — the  grains  of  sand  out  there.  But  they  are  not 
reward." 

"No?  .  .  .  Listen.  For  just  one  kiss — if  I  had  to 
earn  it  so — I  would  dig  that  road-bed  out  there,  carry 
every  tie  and  rail  with  my  bare  hands,  drive  every  spike — " 

216 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Neale,  you  talk  like  a  boy.  Something,  indeed,  has 
gone  to  your  head." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  has.  It's  your  face — in  the  moon 
light." 

She  hid  her  blushes  for  a  moment  on  his  breast. 

"I — I  want  to  be  serious,"  she  whispered.  "I  want  to 
thank  God  for  my  good  fortune.  To  think  of  you  and 
your  work!  .  .  .  The  future!  And  you — you  only  want 
kisses." 

"Well,  since  your  future  must  be  largely  made  up  of 
kisses,  suppose  you  begin  your  work — right  now." 

"Oh,  you're  teasing!  Yet  when  you  ask  of  me — what 
ever  you  ask — I  have  no  mind — no  will.  Something  drags 
at  me  ...  I  feel  it  now — as  I  used  to — when  you  made 
me  wade  the  brook." 

"Oh!  That's  my  sweetest  memory  of  you.  How  it 
haunted  me!" 

They  stood  silent  for  a  while.  Out  in  the  moon-blanched 
space  the  sentries  trod  monotonously.  A  coyote  yelped, 
sharp  and  wild.  The  wind  moaned  low.  Suddenly  Neale 
shook  himself,  as  if  awakening. 

"  Allie,  it  grows  late.  We  must  say  good  night.  .  .  .  To 
day  has  been  blessed.  I  am  grateful  to  the  depths  of  my 
heart.  .  x  .  But  I  won't  let  you  go — until  my  reward — " 

She  raised  her  face,  white  and  noble  in  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NEALE  slept  in  a  tent,  and  when  he  was  suddenly  awak 
ened  it  was  bright  daylight.  His  ears  vibrated  to  a 
piercing  blast.  For  an  instant  he  could  not  distinguish  the 
sound.  But  when  it  ceased  he  knew  it  had  been  a  ringing 
bugle-call.  Following  that  came  the  voices  and  move 
ments  of  excited  troopers. 

He  rolled  from  his  blankets  to  get  into  boots  and  coat 
and  rush  out.  The  troopers  appeared  all  around  him  in 
hurried  orderly  action.  Neale  asked  a  soldier  what  was 
up. 

"Redskins,  b'gorra — before  brikfast!"  was  the  disgusted 
reply. 

Neale  thought  of  Allie  and  his  heart  contracted.  A 
swift  glance  on  all  sides,  however,  failed  to  see  any  evidence 
of  attack  on  the  camp.  He  espied  General  Lodge  and 
Colonel  Dillon  among  a  group  before  the  engineers'  quar 
ters.  Neale  hurried  up. 

"Good  morning,  Neale,"  said  the  chief,  grimly.  "You're 
back  on  the  job,  all  right." 

And  Colonel  Dillon  added,  "A  little  action  to  celebrate 
your  return,  Neale!" 

"What's  happened?"  queried  Neale,  shortly. 

"We  just  got  a  telegraph  message:  'Big  force — Sioux/ 
That's  all.  The  operator  says  the  wire  was  cut  in  the  middle 
of  the  message." 

"Big  force — Sioux!"  repeated  Neale.  "Between  here 
and  Benton?" 

"Of  course.  We  sent  a  scout  on  horseback  down  along 
the  line." 

218 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Neale,  you'll  find  guns  inside.  Help  yourself ,"  said 
General  Lodge.  "You'll  take  breakfast  with  us  in  the 
cabin.  We  don't  know  what's  up  yet.  But  it  looks  bad 
for  us — having  the  women  here.  This  cabin  is  no  fort." 

"General,  we  can  have  all  those  railroad  ties  hustled 
here  and  throw  up  defenses,"  suggested  the  officer. 

"That's  a  good  idea.  But  the  troopers  will  have  to 
carry  them.  That  work-train  won't  get  out  here  to 
day." 

"It's  not  likely.  But  we  can  use  the  graders  from  the 
camp  up  the  line.  .  .  .  Neale,  go  in  and  get  guns  and 
a  bite  to  eat.  I'll  have  a  horse  here  ready  for  you.  I  want 
you  to  ride  out  after  those  graders/' 

"All  right,"  replied  Neale,  rapidly.  "Have  you  told — 
Do  the  women  know  yet  what's  up?" 

"  Yes.    And  that  girl  of  yours  has  nerve.    Hurry,  Neale." 

Neale  rode  away  on  his  urgent  errand  without  having 
seen  Allie.  His  orders  had  been  to  run  the  horse.  It  was 
some  distance  to  the  next  grading  camp — how  far  he  did 
not  know.  And  the  possibility  of  his  return  being  cut 
off  by  Indians  had  quickened  Neale  into  a  realization  of 
the  grave  nature  of  the  situation. 

He  had  difficulty  climbing  down  and  up  the  gorge,  but, 
once  across  it,  there  was  the  graded  road-bed,  leading 
straight  to  the  next  camp.  This  road-bed  was  soft,  and 
not  easy  going  for  a  horse.  Neale  found  better  ground 
along  the  line,  on  hard  ground,  and  here  he  urged  the  fresh 
horse  to  a  swift  and  steady  gait. 

The  distance  was  farther  than  he  had  imagined,  and 
probably  exceeded  ten  miles.  He  rode  at  a  gallop  through 
a  wagon-train  camp,  which,  from  its  quiet  looks,  was  not 
connected  with  the  work  on  the  railroad,  straight  on  intc 
the  midst  of  two  hundred  or  more  graders  just  about  to 
begin  the  day's  work.  His  advent  called  a  halt  to  every 
thing.  Sharply  and  briefly  Neale  communicated  the  orders 
given  him.  Then  he  wheeled  his  horse  for  the  return  trip. 

219 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

When  he  galloped  through  the  wagon-train  camp  several 
rough-appearing  men  hailed  him  curiously. 

"Indians!"  yelled  Neale,  as  he  swept  on. 

He  glanced  back  once  to  see  a  tall,  dark-faced  man 
wearing  a  frock-coat  speak  to  the  others  and  then  wildly 
fling  out  his  arms. 

It  was  down-hill  on  the  way  back,  and  the  horse,  now 
thoroughly  heated  and  excited,  ran  his  swiftest.  Far  down 
the  line  Neale  saw  columns  of  smoke  rolling  upward. 
They  appeared  farther  on  than  his  camp,  yet  they 
caused  him  apprehension.  His  cheek  blanched  at  the 
thought  that  the  camp  containing  Allie  Lee  might  be  sur 
rounded  by  Indians.  His  fears,  however,  were  groundless, 
for  soon  he  saw  the  white  tents  and  the  cabins,  with  the 
smoke  columns  rising  far  below. 

Neale  rode  into  camp  from  the  west  in  time  to  see 
Dillon's  scout  galloping  hard  up  from  the  east.  Neale 
dismounted  before  the  waiting  officers  to  give  hi?  re 
port. 

"Good!"  replied  Dillon.  "You  certainly  made  time. 
We  can  figure  on  those  graders  in  an  hour  or  so?" 

"Yes.  There  were  horses  enough  for  half  the  gang,** 
answered  Neale. 

"Now  for  Anderson's  report,"  muttered  the  officer. 

Anderson  was  the  scout.  He  rode  up  on  a  foam-lashed 
mustang,  and  got  off,  dark  and  grimy  with  dust.  His 
report  was  that  he  had  been  unable  to  get  in  touch  with 
any  soldiers  or  laborers  along  the  line,  but  he  had  seen 
enough  with  his  own  eyes.  Half-way  between  the  camp 
and  Benton  a  large  force  of  Sioux  had  torn  up  the  track, 
halted  and  fired  the  work-train.  A  desperate  battle  was 
being  fought,  with  the  odds  against  the  workmen,  for  the 
reason  that  the  train  of  box-cars  was  burning.  Troops 
must  be  rushed  to  the  rescue. 

Colonel  Dillon  sent  a  trooper  with  orders  to  saddle  the 
horses. 

This  sent  a  cold  chill  through  Neale.  "General,  if  the 

220 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Sioux  rounded  us  up  here  in  this  camp  we'd  be  hard  put  to 
it,"  he  said,  forcibly. 

"  Right  you  are,  Neale.  The  high  slopes,  rocks,  and 
trees  would  afford  cover.  Whoever  picked  out  this  location 
for  a  camp  wasn't  thinking  of  Indians.  .  .  .  But  we  need 
scarcely  expect  an  attack  here." 

"Suppose  we  get  the  women  away — to  the  hills,"  sug 
gested  Neale. 

Anderson  shook  his  head.  "They  might  be  worse  off. 
Here  you've  shelter,  water,  food,  and  men  coming.  That's 
a  big  force  of  Sioux.  They'll  have  lookouts  on  all  the 
hills." 

It  was  decided  to  leave  a  detachment  of  soldiers  under 
Lieutenant  Brady,  who  was  to  remain  in  camp  until  the 
arrival  of  the  graders,  and  then  follow  hard  on  Colonel 
Dillon's  trail. 

Besides  Allie  Lee  there  were  five  other  women  in  camp, 
and  they  all  came  out  to  see  the  troops  ride  away.  Neale 
heard  Colonel  Dillon  assure  his  wife  that  he  did  not  think 
there  was  any  danger.  But  the  color  failed  to  return  to 
her  face.  The  other  women,  excepting  Allie,  were  plainly 
frightened.  Neale  found  new  pride  in  Allie.  She  showed 
little  fear  of  the  Sioux. 

General  Lodge  rode  beside  Colonel  Dillon  at  the  head  of 
the  troops.  They  left  camp  on  a  trot,  raising  a  cloud  of 
dust,  and  quickly  disappeared  round  the  curve  of  the  hill. 
The  troopers  who  were  left  behind  stacked  their  guns  and 
sallied  out  after  railroad  ties  with  which  to  build  defenses. 
Anderson,  the  scout,  rode  up  the  slope  to  a  secluded  point 
from  which  he  was  to  keep  watch.  The  women  were  in 
structed  to  stay  inside  the  log  cabin  that  adjoined  the 
flimsy  quarters  of  the  engineers.  Baxter,  with  his  assistants, 
overhauled  the  guns  and  ammunition  left;  and  Neale 
gathered  up  all  the  maps  and  plans  and  drawings  and  put 
them  in  a  bag  close  at  hand. 

Time  passed  swiftly,  and  in  another  half-hour  the  graders 
began  to  arrive.  They  came  riding  in  bareback,  sometimes 

221 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

two  on  one  horse,  flourishing  their  guns — a  hundred  or  more 
red-faced  Irishmen  spoiling  for  a  fight.  Their  advent 
eased  Neale's  dread.  Still,  a  strange  feeling  weighed 
upon  him  and  he  could  not  understand  it  or  shake  it.  He 
had  no  optimism  for  the  moment.  He  judged  it  to  be 
over-emotion,  a  selfish  and  rather  exaggerated  fear  for 
Allie's  safety. 

Lieutenant  Brady  then  departed  with  his  soldiers, 
leaving  the  noisy  laborers  to  carry  ties  and  erect  bulwarks. 
The  Irish,  as  ever,  growled  and  voiced  their  complaints 
at  finding  work  instead  of  fighting. 

"Hurry  an'  fetch  on  yez  dim  Sooz!"  was  the  cry  sent 
after  Brady,  and  that  request  voiced  the  spirit  of  the 
gang. 

In  an  hour  they  had  piled  a  fence  of  railroad  ties,  six  feet 
high,  around  the  engineers'  quarters.  This  task  had 
scarcely  been  done  when  Anderson  was  discovered  riding 
recklessly  down  the  slope.  Baxter  threw  up  his  hands. 

"We're  going  to  have  it,"  he  said.  "Neale,  I'm  not  so 
young  as  I  was." 

Anderson  rode  in  behind  the  barricade  and  dismounted. 
"Sioux!" 

The  graders  greeted  this  information  with  loud  hurrahs. 
But  when  Anderson  pointed  out  a  large  band  of  Sioux 
filing  down  from  the  hilltop  the  enthusiasm  was  somewhat 
checked.  It  was  the  largest  hostile  force  of  Sioux  that 
Neale  had  ever  seen.  The  sight  of  the  lean,  wild  figures 
stirred  Neale's  blood,  and  then  again  sent  that  cold  chill 
over  him.  The  Indians  rode  down  the  higher  slope  and 
turned  off  at  the  edge  of  the  timber  out  of  rifle-range. 
Here  they  got  off  their  mustangs  and  apparently  held  a 
council.  Neale  plainly  saw  a  befeathered  chieftain  point 
with  long  arm.  Then  the  band  moved,  disintegrated,  and 
presently  seemed  to  have  melted  into  the  ground. 

"Men,  we're  in  for  a  siege!"  yelled  old  Baxter. 

At  this  juncture  the  women  came  running  out,  badly 
frightened. 

223 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

"The  Indians!  The  Indians!"  cried  Mrs.  Dillon.  "We 
saw  them — behind  the  cabin — creeping  down  through  the 
rocks." 

"Get  inside — stay  in  the  cabin!"  ordered  Baxter. 

Allie  was  the  last  one  crowded  in.  Neale,  as  he  half 
forced  her  inside,  was  struck  with  a  sudden  wild  change  in 
her  expression. 

"There!    There!"  she  whispered,  trying  to  point. 

Just  then  rifle-shots  and  the  spattering  of  bullets  made 
quick  work  urgent. 

"Go — get  inside  the  log  walls,"  said  Neale,  as  he  shoved 
Allie  in. 

Excitement  prevailed  among  the  graders.  They  began 
to  run  under  cover  of  the  inclosure  and  some  began  to  shoot 
aimlessly. 

"Anderson,  take  some  men!  Go  to  the  back  of  the 
cabin!"  shouted  Baxter. 

The  scout  called  for  men  to  follow  him  and  ran  out. 
So  many  of  the  graders  essayed  to  follow  that  they  blocked 
the  narrow  opening  between  the  inclosure  and  house. 
Suddenly  one  of  them  in  the  rear  sheered  round  so  that 
he  looked  at  Neale.  It  was  but  a  momentary  glance, 
but  Neale  sensed  recognition  there.  Then  the  man  was 
gone  and  Neale  sustained  a  strange  surprise.  That 
face  had  been  familiar,  but  he  could  not  recall  where  he 
had  ever  seen  it.  The  red,  leering,  evil  visage,  with  its 
prominent,  hard  features,  grew  more  vivid  in  memory  as 
Neale's  mind  revolved  closer  to  discovery. 

"Inside  with  you,  Neale,"  yelled  Baxter. 

Baxter  and  Neale,  with  the  four  young  engineers,  took 
to  the  several  rooms  of  the  log  cabin,  where  each  selected 
an  aperture  between  the  logs  or  a  window  through  which 
to  fire  upon  the  Indians.  But  Neale  soon  ascertained  that 
there  was  nothing  to  shoot  at,  outside  of  some  white  puffs 
of  smoke  rising  from  behind  rocks  on  the  slope.  There 
was  absolutely  not  a  sign  of  an  Indian.  The  graders  were 
firing,  but  Neale  believed  they  would  have  done  better 

223 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  save  their  powder.  Bullets  pattered  against  the  logs; 
now  and  then  a  leaden  pellet  sang  through  a  window,  to 
thud  into  the  wall.  Neale  shut  the  heavy  door  leading 
from  the  cabin  into  the  engineers'  quarters,  for  bullets  were 
ripped  through  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  this  canvas- 
and-clapboard  structure.  Then  Neale  passed  from  room 
to  room,  searching  for  Allie.  Two  of  the  engineers  were 
i  kneeling  at  a  chink  between  the  logs,  aiming  and  firing  in 
great  excitement.  Campbell  had  sustained  a  slight  wound 
and  looked  white  with  rage  and  fear.  Baxter  was  peeping 
from  behind  the  rude  jamb  of  a  window. 

"Nothin'  to  shoot  at,  boy,"  he  said,  in  exasperation. 

"Wait.  Listen  to  that  bunch  of  Irish  shoot.  They're 
wasting  powder." 

"We've  plenty  of  ammunition.  Let  'em  shoot.  They 
may  not  hit  any  redskins,  but  they'll  scare  'em." 

"We  can  hold  out  here — if  the  troopers  hurry  back," 
said  Neale. 

"  Sure.  But  maybe  they're  hard  at  it,  too.  I've  no  hope 
this  is  the  same  bunch  of  Sioux  that  held  up  the  work-train." 

"Neither  have  I.  And  if  the  troops  don't  get  here 
before  dark — " 

Neale  halted,  and  Baxter  shook  his  gray  head. 

"That  would  be  bad,"  he  said.  "But  we've  squeezed 
out  of  narrow  places  before,  buildin'  this  U.  P.  R." 

Neale  found  the  women  in  the  large  room,  between  the 
corner  of  the  walls  and  a  huge  stone  fireplace.  They  were 
quiet.  Allie  leaped  at  sight  of  Neale.  Her  hands  trembled 
as  she  grasped  him. 

"  Neale !"  she  whispered.    "  I  saw  Fresno !" 

"Who's  he?"  queried  Neale,  blankly. 

"He's  one  of  Durade's  gang." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Neale.  He  drew  Allie  aside.  "You're 
scared." 

"I'd  never  forget  Fresno,"  she  replied,  positively.  "He 
was  one  of  the  four  ruffians  who  burned  Slingerland'a 
cabin  and  made  off  with  me." 

224 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Then  Neale  shook  with  a  violent  start.  He  grasped 
Allie  tight. 

"I  saw  him,  too.  Just  before  I  came  in.  I  saw  one  of 
the  men  that  visited  us  at  Slingerland's.  .  .  .  Big,  hulk 
ing  fellow — red,  ugly  face — bad  look." 

"That's  Fresno.  He  and  the  gang  must  have  been 
camped  with  those  graders  you  brought  here.  Oh,  I'm 
more  afraid  of  Fresno's  gang  than  of  the  Indians." 

"But,  Allie — they  don't  know  you're  here.  You're  safe. 
The  troops  will  be  back  soon,  and  drive  these  Indians 
away." 

Allie  clung  to  Neale,  and  again  he  felt  something  of 
the  terror  these  ruffians  had  inspired  in  her.  He  reassured 
her,  assuming  a  confidence  he  was  far  from  feeling,  and 
cautioned  her  to  stay  in  that  protected  corner.  Then 
he  went  in  the  other  room  to  his  station.  It  angered 
Neale,  and  alarmed  him,  that  another  peril  perhaps  menaced 
Allie.  And  he  prayed  for  the  return  of  the  troops. 

The  day  passed  swiftly,  in  intense  watchfulness  on  the 
part  of  the  defenders,  and  in  a  waiting  game  on  the  part  of 
the  besiegers.  They  kept  up  a  desultory  firing  all  afternoon. 
Now  and  then  a  reckless  grader  running  from  post  to  post 
drew  a  volley  from  the  Sioux;  and  likewise  something 
that  looked  like  an  Indian  would  call  forth  shots  from 
the  defenses.  But  there  was  no  real  fighting. 

It  developed  that  the  Sioux  were  waiting  for  night.  A 
fiery  arrow,  speeding  from  a  bow  in  the  twilight,  left  a  curve 
of  sparks  in  the  air,  like  a  falling  rocket.  It  appeared  to 
be  a  signal  for  demoniacal  yells  on  all  sides.  Rifle-shots 
ceased  to  come  from  the  slopes.  As  darkness  fell  gleams  of 
little  fires  shot  up  from  all  around.  The  Sioux  were  pre 
paring  to  shoot  volleys  of  burning  arrows  down  into  the 
camp. 

Anderson  hurried  in  to  consult  with  Baxter.  "We're 
surrounded,"  he  said,  tersely.  "The  redskins  are  goin' 
to  try  burnin'  us  out.  We're  in  a  mighty  tight  place." 

225 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"What's  to  be  done?"  asked  Baxter. 

Anderson  shook  his  head. 

On  the  instant  there  was  a  dull  spat  of  an  object  striking 
the  roof  over  their  heads.  This  sound  was  followed  by  a 
long,  shrill  yell. 

"That  was  a  burnin'  arrow,"  declared  Anderson. 

The  men,  as  of  one  accord,  ran  out  through  the  engineers' 
quarters  to  the  open.  It  was  now  dark.  Little  fires  dotted 
the  hillsides.  A  dull  red  speck,  like  an  ember,  showed  over 
the  roof,  darkened,  and  disappeared.  Then  a  streak  of  fire 
shot  out  from  the  black  slope  and  sped  on  clear  over  the 
camp. 

"Sooner  or  later  they'll  make  a  go  of  that,"  muttered 
Anderson. 

Neale  heard  the  scout's  horse,  that  had  been  left  there  in 
the  inclosure. 

"Anderson,  suppose  I  jump  your  horse.  It's  dark  as 
pitch.  I  could  run  through — reach  the  troops.  I'll  take  a 
chance." 

"I  had  that  idee  myself,"  replied  Anderson.  "But  it 
seems  to  me  if  them  troopers  wasn't  havin'  hell  they'd 
been  here  long  ago.  I'm  lookin'  for  them  every  minnit. 
They'll  come.  An'  we've  got  to  fight  fire  now  till  they  get 
here." 

"But  there's  no  fire  yet,"  said  Baxter. 

"There  will  be,"  replied  Anderson.  "But  mebbe  we 
can  put  it  out  as  fast  as  they  start  it.  Plenty  of  water  here. 
An'  it's  dark.  What  I'm  afraid  of  is  they'll  fire  the  tents 
out  there,  an'  then  it  '11  be  light  as  day.  We  can't  risk 
climbin'  over  the  roofs." 

"Neale,  go  inside — call  the  boys  out,"  said  Baxter. 

Neale  had  to  feel  his  way  through  the  rooms.  He 
called  to  his  comrades,  and  then  to  the  women  to  keep  up 
their  courage — that  surely  the  troops  would  soon  return. 

When  he  went  out  again  the  air  appeared  full  of  fiery 
streaks.  Shouts  of  the  graders  defiantly  answered  the  yells 
of  the  savages.  Showers  of  sparks  were  dropping  upon 

226 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  camp.  The  Sioux  had  ceased  shooting  their  rifles  for 
the  present,  and,  judging  from  their  yells,  they  had  crawled 
down  closer  under  the  cover  of  night. 

Presently  a  bright  light  flared  up  outside  of  the  in- 
closure.  One  of  the  tents  had  caught  fire.  The  Indians 
yelled  triumphantly.  Neale  and  his  companions  crouched 
back  in  the  shadow.  The  burning  tent  set  fire  to  the  tent 
adjoining.  They  blazed  up  like  paper,  lighting  the  camp 
and  slopes.  But  not  an  Indian  was  visible.  They  stopped 
yelling.  Then  Neale  heard  the  thudding  of  arrows.  Almost 
at  once  the  roof  of  the  engineers'  quarters,  which  was 
merely  strips  of  canvas  over  a  wooden  frame,  burst  into 
flames.  In  a  single  moment  the  roof  of  the  cabin  was 
blazing.  More  tents  ignited,  flared  up,  and  the  scene  be 
came  almost  as  light  as  day.  Rifles  again  began  to  crack. 
The  crafty  Indians  poured  a  hail  of  bullets  into  the  in- 
closure  and  the  walls  of  the  buildings.  Still  not  an  Indian 
was  visible  for  the  defenders  to  shoot  at. 

Anderson,  Neale,  and  Baxter  were  in  grim  consultation. 
They  agreed  on  the  scout's  dictum:  "Reckon  the  game's 
up.  Hustle  the  women  out." 

Neale  crawled  along  the  inclosure  to  the  opening.  On 
that  side  of  the  buildings  there  was  dark  shadow.  But  it 
was  lifting.  He  ran  along  the  wall,  and  he  heard  the  whistle 
of  bullets.  Back  of  the  cabin  the  Indians  appeared  to  have 
gathered  in  force.  Neale  got  to  the  corner  and  peered 
round.  The  blazing  tents  lighted  up  this  end.  He  saw  the 
graders  break  and  run,  some  on  his  side  of  the  cabin, 
some  on  the  other,  while  others  crowded  into  the  door  and 
window.  Neale  ran  back  to  the  window  on  the  dark  side 
of  the  cabin.  He  clambered  in.  A  door  of  this  room  was 
open,  and  through  it  Neale  saw  the  roof  of  the  engineers' 
quarters  blazing.  He  heard  the  women  screaming.  Evi 
dently  they  too  were  running  out  to  the  inclosure.  Neale 
hurried  into  the  room  where  he  had  left  Allie.  He  called. 
There  was  no  answer,  but  a  growing  roar  outside  apparently 
drowned  his  voice.  It  was  dark  in  this  room.  He  felt 

227 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

along  the  wall,  the  fireplace,  the  corner.  Allie  was  not 
there.  The  room  was  empty.  His  hands  groping  low  along 
the  floor  came  in  contact  with  the  bag  he  had  left  in  Allie's 
charge.  It  contained  the  papers  he  had  taken  the  pre 
caution  to  save.  Probably  in  her  flight  to  escape  from  the 
burning  cabin  she  had  dropped  it.  But  that  was  not  like 
Allie:  she  would  have  clung  to  the  bag  while  strength  and 
sense  were  hers.  Perhaps  she  had  gotten  out  of  the  cabin. 
Neale  searched  again,  growing  more  and  more  aware  of 
the  strife  outside.  He  heard  the  crackling  of  wood  over 
his  head.  Evidently  the  cabin  was  burning  like  tinder. 
There  were  men  in  the  back  room,  fighting,  yelling,  crowd 
ing.  Neale  could  see  only  dim,  burly  forms  and  the  flashes 
of  guns.  Smoke  floated  thickly  there.  Some  one,  on  the 
inside  or  outside,  was  beating  out  the  door  with  an  axe. 

He  decided  quickly  that  whatever  Allie  might  have 
done  she  would  not  have  gone  into  that  room.  He  re 
traced  his  steps,  groping,  feeling  everywhere  in  the  dark. 

Suddenly  the  crackling,  the  shots,  the  yells  ceased,  or 
were  drowned  in  a  volume  of  greater  sound.  Neale  ran 
to  the  window.  The  flare  from  the  burning  tents  was 
dying  down.  But  into  the  edge  of  the  circle  of  light  he 
saw  loom  a  line  of  horsemen. 

"Troopers!"  he  cried,  joyfully.  A  great  black  pressing 
weight  seemed  lifted  off  his  mind.  The  troops  would  soon 
rout  that  band  of  sneaking  Sioux. 

Neale  ran  to  the  back  room,  where,  above  the  din  outside, 
he  made  himself  heard.  But  for  all  he  could  see  or  hear  his 
tidings  of  rescue  did  not  at  once  affect  the  men  there.  Then 
he  forgot  them  and  the  fight  outside  in  his  search  for 
Allie.  The  cabin  was  on  fire,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  leave 
it  until  he  was  absolutely  sure  she  was  not  hidden  or  lying 
in  a  faint  in  some  corner.  And  he  had  not  made  sure  of 
that  until  the  burning  roof  began  to  fall  in.  Then  he 
leaped  out  the  window  and  ran  back  to  the  inclosure. 

The  blaze  here  was  no  longer  bright,  but  Neale  could  see 
distinctly.  Some  of  the  piles  of  ties  were  burning.  The 

228 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

heat  had  begun  to  drive  the  men  out.  Troopers  were  every* 
where.  And  it  appeared  the  rattle  of  rifles  was  receding  up 
the  valley.  The  Sioux  had  retreated. 

Here  Neale  continued  his  search  for  Allie.  He  found 
Mrs.  Dillon  and  her  companions,  but  Allie  was  not  with 
them.  All  he  could  learn  from  the  frightened  women  was 
that  Allie  had  been  in  their  company  when  they  started 
to  run  from  the  cabin.  They  had  not  seen  her  since. 

Still  Neale  did  not  despair,  though  his  heart  sank.  Allie 
was  hiding  somewhere.  Frantically  he  searched  the  in- 
closure,  questioned  every  man  he  met,  rushed  back  to 
the  burning  cabin,  where  the  fire  drove  him  out.  But  there 
wts  no  trace  of  Allie. 

Then  the  conviction  of  calamity  settled  upon  him.  While 
the  cabin  burned,  and  the  troopers  and  graders  watched, 
Neale  now  searched  for  the  face  of  the  man  he  had  recog 
nized — the  ruffian  Allie  called  Fresno.  This  search  was 
likewise  fruitless. 

The  following  hours  were  a  hideous,  slow  nightmare  for 
Neale.  He  had  left  one  hope — that  daylight  would  dis 
close  Allie  somewhere. 

Day  eventually  dawned.  It  disclosed  many  facts.  The 
Sioux  had  departed,  and  if  they  had  suffered  any  loss  there 
was  no  evidence  of  it.  The  engineers'  quarters,  cabin,  and 
tents  had  burned  to  the  ground.  Utensils,  bedding,  food, 
grain,  tools,  and  instruments — everything  of  value  except 
the  papers  Neale  had  saved — had  gone  up  in  smoke.  The 
troopers  who  had  rescued  the  work-train  must  now  de 
pend  upon  that  train  for  new  supplies.  Many  of  the 
graders  had  been  wounded,  some  seriously,  but  none 
fatally.  Nine  of  them  were  missing,  as  was  Allie  Lee. 

The  blow  was  terrible  for  Neale.  Yet  he  did  not  sink 
under  it.  He  did  not  consider  the  opinion  of  his  sympathetic 
friends  that  Allie  had  wildly  run  out  of  the  burning  cabin 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Sioux.  He  returned  with  the 

229 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

graders  to  their  camp;  and  it  was  no  surprise  to  him  to 
find  the  wagon-train,  that  had  tarried  near,  gone  in  the 
night.  He  trailed  that  wagon-train  to  the  next  camp,  where 
on  the  busy  road  he  lost  the  wheel-tracks.  Next  day  he 
rode  horseback  all  the  way  in  to  Benton.  But  all  his 
hunting  and  questioning  availed  nothing.  Gloom,  heart- 
(sickness,  and  despair  surged  in  upon  him,  but  he  did  not 
'  think  of  giving  up.  He  remembered  all  Allie  had  told  him. 
Those  fiends  had  gotten  her  again.  He  believed  now  all 
that  she  had  said;  and  there  was  something  of  hope  in 
the  thought  that  if  Durade  had  found  her  again  she  would 
at  least  not  be  at  the  mercy  of  ruffians  like  Fresno.  But 
this  was  a  forlorn  hope.  Still,  it  upheld  Neale  and  deter 
mined  him  to  seek  her  during  the  time  in  which  his  work 
did  not  occupy  him. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  Neale  plodded  through  his 
work  along  the  line  during  the  day,  and  late  in  the  after 
noon  rode  back  with  the  laborers  to  Benton.  If  Allie 
lived  she  must  be  in  Benton, 


CHAPTER  XX 

NEALE  took  up  lodgings  with  his  friend  Larry.    He  did 
not  at  first  tell  the  cowboy  about  his  recovery  of  Allie 
Lee  and  then  her  loss  for  the  second  time;  and  when  finally 
he  could  not  delay  the  revelation  any  longer  he  regretted 
that  he  had  been  compelled  to  tell. 

Larry  took  the  news  hard.  He  inclined  to  the  idea  that 
she  had  fallen  again  into  the  hands  of  the  Indians.  Never 
theless,  he  showed  himself  terribly  bitter  against  men  of 
the  Fresno  stamp,  and  in  fact  against  all  the  outlaw, 
ruffianly,  desperado  class  so  numerous  in  Benton. 

Neale  begged  Larry  to  be  cautious,  to  go  slow,  to  ferret 
out  things,  and  so  help  him,  instead  of  making  it  harder 
to  locate  Allie  through  his  impetuosity. 

"Pard,  I  reckon  Allie's  done  for,"  said  Larry,  gloomily. 

"No — no!  Larry,  I  feel  she's  alive — well.  If  she  were 
dead  or — or — well,  wouldn't  I  know?"  protested  Neale. 

But  Larry  was  not  convinced.  He  had  seen  the  hard 
side  of  border  life;  he  knew  the  odds  against  Allie. 

"Reckon  I'll  look  fer  that  Fresno,"  he  said. 

And  deeper  than  before  he  plunged  into  Benton's  wild 
life. 

One  evening  Neale,  on  returning  from  work  to  his  lodg 
ings,  found  the  cowboy  there.  In  the  dim  light  Larry 
looked  strange.  He  had  his  gun-belt  in  his  hands.  Neale 
turned  up  the  lamp. 

"Hello,  Red!  What's  the  matter?  You  look  pale  and 
sick,"  said  Neale. 

"They  wanted  to  throw  me  out  of  thet  dance-hall,"  said 
Larry. 

231 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Which  one?" 

"Stanton's." 

"Well,  did  they?"  inquired  Neale. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  not.  I  walked.  An*  some  night  I'll 
shore  clean  out  thet  hall." 

Neale  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  Larry's  appearance. 
The  cowboy  seemed  to  be  relaxing.  His  lips,  that  had 
been  tight,  began  to  quiver,  and  his  hands  shook.  Then 
he  swung  the  heavy  gun-belt  with  somber  and  serious  air, 
as  if  he  were  undecided  about  leaving  it  off  even  when 
about  to  go  to  bed. 

"Red,  you've  thrown  a  gun!"  exclaimed  Neale. 

Larry  glanced  at  him,  and  Neale  sustained  a  shock. 

"Shore,"  drawled  Larry. 

"By  Heaven!  I  knew  you  would,"  declared  Neale,  ex 
citedly,  and  he  clenched  his  fist.  "  Did  you — you  kill  some 
one?" 

"Pard,  I  reckon  he's  daid,"  mused  the  cowboy.  "I 
didn't  look  to  see.  .  .  .  Fust  gun  I've  throwed  fer  long.  . . . 
It  '11  come  back  now,  shorer  'n  hell!" 

"What  'U  come  back?"  queried  Neale. 

Larry  did  not  answer  this. 

"  Who'd  you  shoot  ?"  Neale  went  on. 

"Pard,  I  reckon  it  ain't  my  way  to  gab  a  lot,"  replied 
Larry. 

"But  you'll  tell  me"  insisted  Neale,  passionately.  He 
jerked  the  gun  and  belt  from  Larry,  and  threw  them  on 
the  bed. 

"All-1  right,"  drawled  Larry,  taking  a  deep  breath.  "I 
went  into  Stanton's  hall  the  other  night,  an'  a  pretty 
girl  made  eyes  at  me.  Wai,  I  shore  asked  her  to  dance.  I 
reckon  we'd  been  good  pards  if  we'd  been  let  alone.  But 
there's  a  heap  of  fellers  runnin'  her  an'  some  of  them  didn't 
cotton  to  me.  One  they  called  Cordy — he  shore  did  get 
offensive.  He's  the  four-flush,  loud  kind.  I  didn't  want  to 
make  any  trouble  for  the  girl  Ruby — thet's  her  name — so 
I  was  mighty  good-natured.  ...  I  dropped  in  Stanton's 

212 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL' 

to-day.  Ruby  spotted  me  fust  off,  an'  she  asked  me  to  dance. 
Shore  I'm  no  dandy  dancer,  but  I  tried  to  learn.  We  was 
gettin'  along  powerful  nice  when  in  conies  Cordy,  hoppin' 
mad.  He  had  a  feller  with  him.  An'  both  had  been  triflin' 
with  red  liquor.  You  oughter  seen  the  crowd  get  back. 
Made  me  think  Cordy  an'  his  pard  had  blowed  a  lot  round 
heah  an*  got  a  rep.  Wai,  I  knowed  they  was  bluff.  Jest 
mean,  ugly  four-flushers.  Shore  they  didn't  an'  couldn't 
know  nothin'  of  me.  I  reckon  I  was  only  thet  long-legged, 
red-headed  galoot  from  Texas.  Anyhow,  I  was  made  to/ 
understand  it  might  get  hot  sudden-like  if  I  didn't  clear  k 
out.  I  left  it  to  the  girl.  An'  some  of  them  girls  is  full  of 
hell.  Ruby  jest  stood  there  scornful  an'  sassy,  with  her 
haid  leanin'  to  one  side,  her  eyes  half-shut,  an'  a  little 
smile  on  her  face.  I'd  call  her  more  'n  hell.  A  nice  girl 
gone  wrong.  Them  kind  shore  is  the  dangerest.  .  .  .  Wai, 
she  says:  'Reddy,  are  you  goin'  to  let  them  run  you  out 
of  heah?  They  haven't  any  strings  on  me.'  So  I  slapped 
Cordy's  face  an'  told  him  to  shut  up.  He  let  out  a  roar 
an'  got  wild  with  his  hands,  like  them  four-flush  fellers 
do  who  wants  to  look  real  bad.  I  says,  pretty  sharp- 
like,  '  Don't  make  any  moves  now !'  An'  the  darned  fool 
went  fer  his  gun!  .  .  .  Wai,  I  caught  his  hand,  twisted 
the  gun  away  from  him,  poked  him  in  the  ribs  with  it,  an* 
then  shoved  it  back  in  his  belt.  He  was  crazy,  but  pretty 
pale  an'  surprised.  Shore  I  acted  sudden-like.  Then  I 
says, '  My  festive  gent,  if  you  think  of  thet  move  again  you'll 
be  stiff  before  you  start  it.'  .  .  .  Guess  he  believed  me." 

Larry   paused  in  his  narrative,   wiped   his   face,   and 
moistened  his  lips.    Evidently  he  was  considerably  shaken. 

"Well,  go  on,"  said  Neale,  impatiently. 

"Thet  was  all  right  so  far  as  it  went,"  resumed  Larry. 
"  But  the  pard  of  Cordy's — he  was  half -drunk  an'  a  big  brag, 
anyhow.  He  took  up  Cordy's  quarrel.  He  hollered  so  he 
stopped  the  music  an'  drove  'most  everybody  out  of  the 
hall.  They  was  peepin'  in  at  the  door.  But  Ruby  stayed. 
There's  a  game  kid,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  see  her  to-morrow-" 
16  233 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

' '  You  are  not , ' '  declared  Neale.  ' '  Hurry  up.  Finish  your 
story." 

4 'Wai,  the  big  bloke  swaggered  all  over  me,  an'  I  seen 
right  off  thet  he  didn't  have  sense  enough  to  be  turned. 
Then  I  got  cold.  I  always  used  to.  ...  He  says,  'Are 
you  goin'  to  keep  away  from  Ruby?' 

"An'  I  says,  very  polite,  'I  reckon  not.' 

"Then  he  throws  hisself  in  shape,  like  he  meant  to  leap 
over  a  hoss,  an'  hollers,  'Pull  yer  gun!' 

"I  asks,  very  innocent,  'What  for,  mister?' 

"An'  he  bawls  fer  the  crowd,  "Cause  I'm  a-goin'  to  bore 
you,  an'  I  never  kill  a  man  till  he  goes  fer  his  gun.' 

"To  thet  I  replies,  more  considerate:  'But  it  ain't  fair. 
You'd  better  get  the  fust  shot.' 

"Then  the  fool  hollers,  'Redhead!' 

"Thet  settled  him.  I  leaps  over  quick,  slugged  him 
one — left-handed.  He  staggered,  but  he  didn't  fall.  .  .  . 
Then  he  straightens  up  an'  goes  fer  his  gun." 

Larry  halted  again.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  in 
sulted,  and  a  bitter  irony  sat  upon  his  lips. 

"I  seen,  when  he  dropped,  thet  he  never  got  his  hand  to 
his  gun  at  all.  .  .  .  Jest  as  I'd  reckoned.  .  .  .  Wai, 
what  made  me  sick  was  that  my  bullet  went  through  him 
an'  then  some  of  them  thin  walls — an'  hit  a  girl  in  another 
house.  She's  bad  hurt.  .  .  .  They  ought  to  have  walls 
thet  'd  stop  a  bullet." 

Neale  heard  the  same  narrative  from  the  lips  of  Ancliffe, 
and  it  differed  only  in  the  essential  details  of  the  cowboy's 
consummate  coolness.  Ancliffe,  who  was  an  eye-witness 
of  the  encounter,  declared  that  drink  or  passion  or  bravado 
had  no  part  in  determining  Larry's  conduct.  Ancliffe 
talked  at  length  about  the  cowboy.  Evidently  he  had 
been  struck  with  Larry's  singular  manner  and  look  and 
action.  Ancliffe  had  all  an  Englishman's  intelligent  observ 
ing  powers,  and  the  conclusion  he  drew  was  that  Larry 
had  reacted  to  a  situation  familiar  to  him. 

234 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale  took  more  credence  in  what  Slingerland  had  told 
him  at  Medicine  Bow.  That  night  Hough  and  then 
many  other  acquaintances  halted  Neale  to  gossip  about 
Larry  Red  King. 

The  cowboy  had  been  recognized  by  Texans  visiting 
Benton.  They  were  cattle  barons  and  they  did  not  speak 
freely  of  King  until  ready  to  depart  from  the  town.  Larry's 
right  name  was  Fisher.  He  had  a  brother — a  famous  Texas 
outlaw  called  King  Fisher.  Larry  had  always  been  Red 
Fisher,  and  when  he  left  Texas  he  was  on  the  way  to  be 
come  as  famous  as  his  brother.  Texas  had  never  been 
too  hot  for  Red  until  he  killed  a  sheriff.  He  was  a  born 
gun-fighter,  and  was  well  known  on  all  the  ranches  from 
the  Pan  Handle  to  the  Rio  Grande.  He  had  many  friends, 
he  was  a  great  horseman,  a  fine  cowman.  He  had  never 
been  notorious  for  bad  habits  or  ugly  temper.  Only  he 
had  an  itch  to  throw  a  gun  and  he  was  unlucky  in  always 
running  into  trouble.  Trouble  gravitated  to  him.  His 
red  head  was  a  target  for  abuse,  and  he  was  sensitive  and 
dangerous  because  of  that  very  thing.  Texas,  the  land 
of  gun-fighters,  had  seen  few  who  were  equal  to  him  in  cool 
nerve  and  keen  eye  and  swift  hand. 

Neale  did  not  tell  Larry  what  he  had  heard.  The  cow- 
boy  changed  subtly,  but  not  in  his  attitude  toward  Neale. 
Benton  and  its  wildness  might  have  been  his  proper  setting. 
So  many  rough  and  bad  men,  inspired  by  the  time  and 
place,  essayed  to  be  equal  to  Benton.  But  they  lasted  a 
day  and  were  forgotten.  The  great  compliment  paid  to 
Larry  King  was  the  change  in  the  attitude  of  this  wild 
camp.  He  had  been  one  among  many — a  stranger.  The 
time  came  when  the  dance-halls  grew  quiet  as  he  entered 
and  the  gambling-hells  suspended  their  games.  His  fame 
increased  as  from  lip  to  lip  his  story  passed,  always  gaining 
something.  Jealousy,  hatred,  and  fear  grew  with  his 
fame.  It  was  hinted  that  he  was  always  seeking  some 
man  or  men  from  California.  He  had  been  known  to 
question  new  arrivals:  "Might  you-all  happen  to  be  from 

235 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

California  ?      Have  you  ever  heard  of  an  outfit  that  made  off 
with  a  girl  out  heah  in  the  hills?" 

Neale,  not  altogether  in  the  interest  of  his  search  for 
Allie,  became  a  friend  and  companion  of  Place  Hough. 
Ancliffe  sought  him,  also,  and  he  was  often  in  the  haunts 
of  these  men.  They  did  not  take  so  readily  to  Larry  King. 
The  cowboy  had  become  a  sort  of  nervous  factor  in  any 
community;  his  presence  was  not  conducive  to  a  com 
fortable  hour.  For  Larry,  though  he  still  drawled  his 
talk  and  sauntered  around,  looked  the  name  the  Texan 
visitors  had  left  him.  His  flashing  blue  eyes,  cold  and 
intent  and  hard  in  his  flaming  red  face,  his  blazing  red 
hair,  his  stalking  form,  and  his  gun  swinging  low — these 
characteristics  were  so  striking  as  to  make  his  presence 
always  felt.  Beauty  Stanton  insisted  the  cowboy  had 
ruined  her  business  and  that  she  had  a  terror  of  him. 
But  Neale  doubted  the  former  statement.  All  business, 
good  and  bad,  grew  in  Benton. 

It  was  strange  that  as  this  attractive  and  notorious 
woman  conceived  a  terror  of  Larry,  she  formed  an  in 
fatuation  for  Neale.  He  would  have  been  blind  to  it  but 
for  the  dry  humor  of  Place  Hough,  and  the  amiable  in 
difference  of  Ancliffe,  who  had  anticipated  a  rival  in  Neale. 
Their  talk,  like  most  talk,  drifted  through  Neale's  ears. 
What  did  he  care  ?  Both  Hough  and  Ancliffe  began  to  loom 
large  to  Neale.  They  wasted  every  day,  every  hour;  and 
yet,  underneath  the  one's  cold,  passionless  pursuit  of 
gold,  and  the  other's  serene  and  gentle  quest  for  effacement 
there  was  something  finer  left  of  other  years.  Benton 
was  full  of  gamblers  and  broken  men  who  had  once  been 
gentlemen.  Neale  met  them  often — gambled  with  them, 
watched  them.  He  measured  them  all.  They  had  given 
life  up,  but  within  him  there  was  a  continual  struggle. 
He  swore  to  himself,  as  he  had  to  Larry,  that  life  was  hope 
less  without  Allie  Lee — yet  there  was  never  a  sleeping  or  a 
waking  hour  that  he  gave  up  hope.  The  excitement  and 

236 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

allurement  of  the  dance-halls,  though  he  admitted  their 
power,  were  impossible  for  him;  and  he  frequented 
them,  as  he  went  everywhere  else,  only  in  search  of  a 
possible  clue. 

Gambling,  then,  seemed  the  only  excuse  open  to  him 
for  his  presence  in  Benton's  sordid  halls.  And  he  had  to 
bear  as  best  he  could  the  baseness  of  his  associates;  of 
course,  women  had  free  run  of  all  the  places  in  Benton. 

At  first  Neale  was  flirted  with  and  importuned.  Then 
he  was  scorned.  Then  he  was  let  alone.  Finally,  as  time 
went  on,  always  courteous,  even  considerate  of  the  women 
who  happened  in  his  way,  but  blind  and  cold  to  the  mean 
ing  of  their  looks  and  words,  he  was  at  last  respected  and 
admired. 

There  was  always  a  game  in  the  big  gambling-place,  and 
in  fact  the  greatest  stakes  were  played  for  by  gamblers  like 
Hough,  pitted  against  each  other.  But  most  of  the  time 
was  reserved  for  the  fleecing  of  the  builders  of  the  U.  P.  R., 
the  wage-earners  whose  gold  was  the  universal  lure  and 
the  magnet.  Neale  won  money  in  those  games  in  which 
he  played  with  Place  Hough.  His  winnings  he  scattered 
or  lost  in  games  where  he  was  outpointed  or  cheated. 

One  day  a  number  of  Eastern  capitalists  visited  Benton. 
The  fame  of  the  town  drew  crowds  of  the  curious  and 
greedy.  And  many  of  these  transient  visitors  wanted  to 
have  their  fling  at  the  gambling-hells  and  dancing-halls. 
There  was  a  contagion  in  the  wildness  that  affected  even 
the  selfish.  It  would  be  something  to  remember  and 
boast  of  when  Benton  with  its  wild  life  should  be  a  thing 
of  the  past. 

Place  Hough  met  old  acquaintances  among  some  St. 
Louis  visitors,  who  were  out  to  see  the  road  and  Benton, 
and  perhaps  to  find  investments;  and  he  assured  them 
blandly  that  their  visit  would  not  be  memorable  unless  he 
relieved  them  of  their  surplus  cash.  So  a  game  with  big 
stakes  was  begun.  Neale,  with  Hough  and  five  of  th!* 
visitors,  made  up  the  table. 

237 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Eastern  visitors  worked  upon  Neale's  mood,  but  he 
did  not  betray  it.  He  was  always  afraid  he  would  come 
face  to  face  with  some  of  the  directors,  whom  he  did  not 
care  to  meet  in  such  surroundings.  And  so,  while  gambling, 
he  seldom  looked  up  from  his  cards.  The  crowd  came 
and  went,  but  he  never  saw  it. 

This  big  game  attracted  watchers.  The  visitors  were 
noisy ;  they  drank  a  good  deal ;  they  lost  with  an  equanimity 
that  excited  interest,  even  in  Benton.  The  luck  for  Neale 
seesawed  back  and  forth.  Then  he  lost  steadily  until  he 
had  to  borrow  from  Hough. 

About  this  time  Beauty  Stanton,  with  Ruby  and  another 
^oman,  entered  the  room,  and  were  at  once  attracted 
by  the  game,  to  the  evident  pleasure  of  the  visitors.  And 
then,  unexpectedly,  Larry  Red  King  stalked  in  and  lounged 
forward,  cool,  easy,  careless,  his  cigarette  half  smoked,  his 
blue  eyes  keen. 

"Hey!  is  that  him?"  whispered  one  of  the  visitors,  in 
dicating  Larry. 

"  That's  Red,"  replied  Hough.  "  I  hope  he's  not  looking 
for  one  of  you  gentlemen." 

They  laughed,  but  not  spontaneously. 

"I've  seen  his  like  in  Dodge  City,"  said  one. 

"Ask  him  to  sit  in  the  game,"  said  another. 

"No.  Red's  a  card-sharp,"  replied  Hough.  "And  I'd 
hate  to  sSe  him  catch  one  of  you  pulling  a  crooked  deal." 

They  lapsed  back  into  the  intricacies  and  fascination 
of  poker. 

Neale,  however,  found  the  game  unable  to  hold  his 
undivided  attention.  Larry  was  there,  looking  and  watch 
ing,  and  he  made  Neale's  blood  run  cold.  The  girl  Ruby 
stood  close  at  hand,  with  her  half-closed  eyes,  mysteri 
ous  and  sweet,  upon  him,  and  Beauty  Stanton  came  up 
behind  him. 

"Neale,  I'll  bring  you  luck,"  she  said,  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

Neale's  luck  did  change.  Fortune  faced  about  abruptly, 

238 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

with  its  fickle  inconsistency,  and  Neale  had  a  run  of  cards 
that  piled  the  gold  and  bills  before  him  and  brought  a 
crowd  ten  deep  around  the  table.  When  the  game  broke 
up  Neale  had  won  three  thousand  dollars. 

"See!  I  brought  you  luck,"  whispered  Beauty  Stanton 
in  his  ear.  And  across  the  table  Ruby  smiled  hauntingly 
and  mockingly. 

Neale  vaved  the  crowd  toward  the  bar.  Only  the  women 
and  Larry  refused  the  invitation.  Ruby  gravitated  irre 
sistibly  toward  the  cowboy. 

"Aren't  you  connected  with  the  road?"  inquired  one  of 
the  visitors,  drinking  next  to  Neale. 

"Yes,"  replied  Neale. 

"Saw  you  in  Omaha  at  the  office  of  the  company.  My 
uame's  Blair.  I  sell  supplies  to  Commissioner  Lee.  He 
has  growing  interests  along  the  road." 

Neale's  lips  closed  and  he  set  down  his  empty  glass. 
Excusing  himself,  he  went  back  to  the  group  he  had  left. 
Larry  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table;  Ruby  stood  close  to 
him  and  she  was  talking;  Stanton  and  the  other  woman 
had  taken  chairs. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  you  made  a  rake-off,"  drawled  Larry,  as 
Neale  came  up.  "  Lend  me  some  money,  pard." 

Neale  glanced  at  Larry  and  from  him  to  the  girl.  She 
dropped  her  eyes. 

"Ruby,  do  you  like  Larry?"  he  queried. 

"Sure  do,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Reddy,  do  you  like  Ruby?"  went  on  Neale. 

Beauty  Stanton  smiled  her  interest.  The  other  woman 
iCame  back  from  nowhere  to  watch  Neale.  Larry  regarded 
his  friend  in  mild  surprise. 

"  I  reckon  it  was  a  tumble  case  of  love  at  fust  sight,"  he 
drawled. 

"  I'll  call  your  bluff!"  flashed  Neale.  "  I've  just  won  three 
thousand  dollars.  I'll  give  it  to  you.  Will  you  take  it 
and  leave  Benton — go  back — no!  go  west — begin  life  over 
again?" 

239 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

"Together,  you  mean!"  exclaimed  Beauty  Stanton,  as 
she  rose  with  a  glow  on  her  faded  face.  No  need  to  wonder 
why  she  had  been  named  Beauty. 

"Yes,  together,"  replied  Neale,  in  swift  steadiness. 
"You've  started  bad.  But  you're  young.  It's  never  too 
late.  With  this  money  you  can  buv  a  ranch — begin  all 
over  again." 

"Pard,  haven't  you  seen  too  much  red  liquor?"  drawled 
Larry. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.    "Too  late!"  she  said,  softly. 

"Why?" 

"Larry  is  bad,  but  he's  honest.  I'm  both  bad  and  dis 
honest." 

"Ruby,  I  wouldn't  call  you  dishonest,"  returned  Neale, 
bluntly.  "Bad — yes.  And  wild!  But  if  you  had  a 
chance?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

"You're  both  slated  for  hell.    What's  the  sense  of  it?" 

"I  don't  see  that  you're  slated  for  heaven,"  retorted 
Ruby. 

"Wai,  I  shore  say  echo,"  drawled  Larry,  as  he  rolled 
a  cigarette.  "Pard,  you're  drunk  this  heah  minnit." 

"I'm  not  drunk.  I  appeal  to  you,  Miss  Stanton,"  pro 
tested  Neale. 

"You  certainly  are  not  drunk,"  she  replied.  "You're 
just—" 

"Crazy,"  interrupted  Ruby. 

They  laughed. 

"  Maybe  I  do  have  queer  impulses,"  replied  Neale,  as  he 
,felt  his  face  grow  white.  "Every  once  in  a  while  I  see  a 
flash — of — of  I  don't  know  what.  /  could  do  something 
foig — even  now — if  my  heart  wasn't  dead." 

"Mine's  in  its  grave,"  said  Ruby,  bitterly.  "Come, 
Stanton,  let's  get  out  of  this.  Find  me  men  who  talk  of 
drink  and  women." 

Neale  deliberately  reached  out  and  stopped  her  as  she 
turned  away.  He  faced  her. 

240 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"You're  no  four-flush,"  he  said.  "You're  game.  You 
*iean  to  play  this  out  to  a  finish.  .  .  .  But  you're  no — no 
maggot  like  the  most.  You  can  think.  You're  afraid  to 
talk  to  me." 

"  I'm  afraid  of  no  man.  But  you — you're  a  fool — a  sky- 
pilot.  You're—" 

"The  thing  is— it's  not  too  late." 

"It  is  too  late!"  she  cried,  with  trembling  lips. 

Neale  saw  and  felt  his  dominance  over  her. 

"It  is  never  too  late!"  he  responded,  with  all  his  force. 
"I  can  prove  that." 

She  looked  at  him  mutely.  The  ghost  of  another  girl 
stood  there  instead  of  the  wild  Ruby  of  Benton. 

"Pard,  you're  drunk  shore!"  ejaculated  Larry,  as  he 
towered  over  them  and  gave  his  belt  a  hitch.  The  cowboy 
sensed  events. 

"I've  annoyed  you  more  than  once,"  said  Neale.  "This  's 
the  last.  ...  So  tell  me  the  truth.  .  .  .  Could  /  take 
you  away  from  this  life?" 

"Take  me?  .    .    .  How— man?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  But  somehow.  .  .  .  I'd  hold  it — as 
worthy — to  save  a  girl  like  you — any  girl — from  hell." 

"  But — how?"  she  faltered.  The  bitterness,  the  irony,  the 
wrong  done  by  her  life,  was  not  manifest  now. 

"You  refused  my  plan  with  Larry.  .  .  .  Come,  let  me 
find  a  home  for  you — with  good  people." 

"My  God — he's  not  in  earnest!"  gasped  the  girl  to  her 
women  friends. 

"I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Neale. 

Then  the  tension  of  the  girl  relaxed.  Her  face  showed  a 
rebirth  of  soul. 

"I  can't  accept,"  she  replied.  If  she  thanked  him  it 
was  with  a  look.  Assuredly  her  eyes  had  never  before  held 
that  gaze  for  Neale.  Then  she  left  the  room,  and  presently 
Stanton's  companion  followed  her.  But  Beauty  Stanton 
remained.  She  appeared  amazed,  even  dismayed. 

Larry  lighted  his  cigarette.  "Shore  I'd  call  thet  a 

241 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

square  kid,"  he  said.    "  Neale,  if  you  get  any  drunker  you'd 
lose  all  thet  money." 

"I'll  lose  it  anyhow,"  replied  Neale,  absent-mindedly. 

"Wai,  stake  me  right  heah  an'  now." 

At  that  Neale  generously  and  still  absent-mindedly  de- 
fivered  to  Larry  a  handful  of  gold  and  notes  that  he  did 
not  count. 

"Hell!    I  ain't  no  bank,"  protested  the  cowboy. 

Hough  and  Ancliffe  joined  them  and  with  amusement 
watched  Larry  try  to  find  pockets  enough  for  his  small 
fortune. 

"Easy  come,  easy  go  in  Benton,"  said  the  gambler,  with 
a  smile.  Then  his  glance,  alighting  upon  the  quiet  Stanton, 
grew  a  little  puzzled.  "Beauty,  what  ails  you?"  he  asked. 

She  was  pale  and  her  expressive  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Neale.  Hough's  words  startled  her. 

"What  ails  me?  .  .  .  Place,  I've  had  a  forgetful  mo 
ment — a  happy  one — and  I'm  deathly  sick!" 

Ancliffe  stared  in  surprise.    He  took  her  literally. 

Beauty  Stanton  looked  at  Neale  again.  "Will  you  come 
to  see  me?"  she  asked,  with  sweet  directness. 

"Thank  you — no,"  replied  Neale.  He  was  annoyed. 
She  had  asked  him  that  before,  and  he  had  coldly  but 
courteously  repelled  what  he  thought  were  her  advances. 
This  time  he  was  scarcely  courteous. 

The  woman  flushed.  She  appeared  about  to  make  a 
quick  and  passionate  reply,  in  anger  and  wounded  pride, 
but  sha  controlled  the  impulse.  She  left  the  room  with 
Ancliffe. 

"Neale,  do  you  know  Stanton  is  infatuated  with  you?" 
asked  Hough,  thoughtfully. 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Neale. 

"She  is,  though.  These  women  can't  fool  me.  I  told 
you  days  ago  I  suspected  that.  Now  I'll  gamble  on  it. 
And  you  know  how  I  play  my  cards." 

"She  saw  me  win  a  pile  of  money,"  said  Neale,  with 
scorn. 

242 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"I'll  bet  you  can't  make  her  take  a  dollar  of  it.  Any 
amount  you  want  and  any  odds." 

Neale  would  not  accept  the  wager.  What  was  he  talking 
about,  anyway?  What  was  this  drift  of  things?  His  mind 
did  not  seem  clear.  Perhaps  he  had  drunk  too  much. 
The  eyes  of  both  Ruby  and  Beauty  Stanton  troubled 
him.  What  had  he  done  to  these  women? 

"Neale,  you're  more  than  usually  excited  to-day,"  ob 
served  Hough.  "  Probably  was  the  run  of  luck.  And  then 
you  spouted  to  the  women." 

Neale  confessed  his  offer  to  Ruby  and  Larry,  and  then 
his  own  impulse. 

"Ruby  called  me  a  fool — crazy — a  sky-pilot.  Maybe  I 
am." 

"Sky-pilot!  Well,  the  little  devil!"  laughed  Hough. 
"I'll  gamble  she  called  you  that  before  you  declared  your 
self." 

"Before,  yes.  I  tell  you,  Hough,  I  have  crazy  im 
pulses.  They've  grown  on  me  out  here.  They  burst  like 
lightning  out  of  a  clear  sky.  I  would  have  done  just  that 
thing  for  Ruby.  .  .  .  Mad,  you  say?  .  .  .  Why,  man, 
she's  not  hopeless!  There  was  something  deep  behind 
that  impulse.  Strange — not  understandable!  I'm  at  the 
mercy  of  every  hour  I  spend  here.  Benton  has  got  into  my 
blood.  And  I  see  how  Benton  is  a  product  of  this  great 
advance  of  progress — of  civilization — the  U.  P.  R.  We're 
only  atoms  in  a  force  no  one  can  understand.  .  .  .  Look 
at  Reddy  King.  That  cowboy  was  set — fixed  like  stone  in 
his  character.  But  Benton  has  called  to  the  worst  and 
wildest  in  him.  He'll  do  something  terrible.  Mark  what 
I  say.  We'll  all  do  something  terrible.  You,  too,  Place 
Hough,  with  all  your  cold,  implacable  control.  The  moment 
will  come,  born  out  of  this  abnormal  time.  I  can't  ex 
plain,  but  I  feel.  There's  a  work-shop  in  this  hell  of  Ben- 
ton.  Invisible,  monstrous,  and  nameless!  .  .  .  Nameless 
like  the  new  graves  dug  every  day  out  here  on  the  desert. 
.  .  .  How  few  of  the  honest  toilers  dream  of  the  spirit 

243 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

that  is  working  on  them.  That  Irishman,  Shane,  think  of 
him.  He  fought  while  his  brains  oozed  from  a  hole  in  his 
head.  I  saw,  but  I  didn't  know  then.  I  wanted  to  take 
his  place.  He  said,  no,  he  wasn't  hurt,  and  Casey  would 
laugh  at  him.  Aye,  Casey  would  have  laughed!  .  .  . 
They  are  men.  There  are  thousands  of  them.  The  U.  P. 
R.  goes  on.  It  can't  be  stopped.  It  has  the  momentum 
of  a  great  nation  pushing  it  on  from  behind.  .  .  .  And  I, 
who  have  lost  all  I  cared  for,  and  you,  who  are  a  drone 
among  the  bees,  and  Ruby  and  Stanton  with  their  kind, 
poor  creatures  sucked  into  the  vortex;  yes,  and  that  mob 
of  leeches,  why  we  all  are  so  stung  by  that  nameless  spirit 
that  we  are  stirred  beyond  ourselves  and  dare  both  height 
and  depth  of  impossible  things." 

"You  must  be  drunk,"  said  Place,  gravely,  "and  yet 
what  you  say  hits  me  hard.  I'm  a  gambler.  But  some 
times — there  are  moments  when  I  might  be  less  or  more. 
There's  mystery  in  the  air.  This  Benton  is  a  chaos.  Those 
hairy  toilers  of  the  rails!  I've  watched  them  hammer  and 
lift  and  dig  and  fight.  By  day  they  sweat  and  they  bleed, 
they  sing  and  joke  and  quarrel — and  go  on  with  the  work. 
By  night  they  are  seized  by  the  furies.  They  fight  among 
themselves  while  being  plundered  and  murdered  by  Ben- 
ton's  wolves.  Heroic  by  day — hellish  by  night.  .  .  .  And 
so,  spirit  or  what — they  set  the  pace." 

Next  afternoon,  when  parasitic  Benton  awoke,  it  found 
the  girl  Ruby  dead  in  her  bed. 

Her  door  had  to  be  forced.  She  had  not  been  murdered. 
She  had  destroyed  much  of  the  contents  of  a  trunk.  She 
had  dressed  herself  in  simple  garments  that  no  one  in 
Benton  had  ever  seen.  It  did  not  appear  what  means  she 
had  employed  to  take  her  life.  She  was  only  one  of  many. 
More  than  one  girl  of  Benton's  throng  had  sought  the  same 
short  road  and  cheated  life  of  further  pain. 

When  Neale  heard  about  it,  upon  his  return  to  Benton, 
late  that  afternoon,  Ruby  was  in  her  grave.  It  suited  him 

244 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

to  walk  out  in  the  twilight  and  stand  awhile  in  the  silence 
beside  the  bare  sandy  mound.  No  stone — no  mark.  An 
other  nameless  grave!  She  had  been  a  child  once,  with 
dancing  eyes  and  smiles,  loved  by  some  one,  surely,  and 
perhaps  mourned  by  some  one  living.  The  low  hum  of 
Benton's  awakening  night  life  was  borne  faintly  on  the 
wind.  The  sand  seeped;  the  coyotes  wailed;  and  yet 
there  was  silence.  Twilight  lingered.  Out  on  the  desert 
the  shadows  deepened. 

By  some  chance  the  grave  of  the  scarlet  woman  adjoined 
that  of  a  laborer  who  had  been  killed  by  a  blast.  Neale 
remembered  the  spot.  He  had  walked  out  there  before. 
A  morbid  fascination  often  drew  him  to  view  that  ever- 
increasing  row  of  nameless  graves.  As  the  workman  had 
given  his  life  to  the  road,  so  had  the  woman.  Neale  saw  a 
significance  in  the  parallel. 

Neale  returned  to  the  town  troubled  in  mind.  He  re^ 
membered  the  last  look  Ruby  had  given  him.  Had  he 
awakened  conscience  in  her?  Upon  questioning  Hough,  he 
learned  that  Ruby  had  absented  herself  from  the  dancing* 
hall  and  had  denied  herself  to  all  on  that  last  night  of  her  life. 

There  was  to  be  one  more  incident  relating  to  this  poor 
girl  before  Benton  in  its  mad  rush  should  forget  her. 

Neale  divined  the  tragedy  before  it  came  to  pass,  but  he 
was  as  powerless  to  prevent  it  as  any  other  spectator  in 
Beauty  Stanton's  hall. 

Larry  King  reacted  in  his  own  peculiar  way  to  the  news 
of  Ruby's  suicide,  and  the  rumored  cause.  He  stalked 
into  that  dancing-hall,  where  his  voice  stopped  the  music 
and  the  dancers. 

"Come  out  heah!"  he  shouted  to  the  pale  Cordy. 

And  King  spun  the  man  into  the  center  of  the  hall,  where 
he  called  him  every  vile  name  known  to  the  camp,  scorned 
and  slapped  and  insulted  him,  shamed  him  before  that 
breathless  crowd,  goaded  him  at  last  into  a  desperate  reach 
ing  for  his  gun,  and  killed  him  as  he  drew  it. 

245 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BENTON  slowed  and  quieted  down  a  few  days  before 
pay-day,  to  get  ready  for  the  great  rush.  Only  the 
saloons  and  dance-halls  and  gambling-hells  were  active, 
and  even  here  the  difference  was  manifest. 

The  railroad-yard  was  the  busiest  place  in  the  town,  for 
every  train  brought  huge  loads  of  food,  merchandise,  and 
liquor,  the  transporting  of  which  taxed  the  teamsters  to 
their  utmost. 

The  day  just  before  pay-day  saw  the  beginning  of  a  sin 
gular  cycle  of  change.  Gangs  of  laborers  rode  in  on  the 
work-trains  from  the  grading-camps  and  the  camps  at  the 
head  of  the  rails,  now  miles  west  of  Benton.  A  rest  of 
several  days  inevitably  followed  the  visit  of  the  pay-car. 
It  was  difficult  to  keep  enough  men  at  work  to  feed  and 
water  the  teams,  and  there  would  have  been  sorry  pro 
tection  from  the  Indians  had  not  the  troops  been  on  duty. 
Pay-days  were  not  off-days  for  the  soldiers. 

Steady  streams  of  men  flowed  toward  Benton  from 
east  and  west;  and  that  night  the  hum  of  Benton  was 
merry,  subdued,  waiting. 

Bright  and  early  the  town  with  its  added  thousands 
awoke.  The  morning  was  clear,  rosy,  fresh.  On  the  desert 
the  colors  changed  from  soft  gray  to  red  and  the  whirls  of 
dust,  riding  the  wind,  resembled  little  clouds  radiant  with 
sunset  hues.  Silence  and  solitude  and  unbroken  level 
reigned  outside  in  infinite  contrast  to  the  seething  town. 
Benton  resembled  an  ant-heap  at  break  of  day.  A  thousand 
songs  arose,  crude  and  coarse  and  loud,  but  full  of  joy. 
Pay-day  and  vacation  were  at  hand! 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Then  drill,  my  Paddies,  drill! 
Drill,  my  heroes,  drill ! 
Drill  all  day, 
No  sugar  in  your  tay, 
Workm'  on  the  U.  P.  Railway." 

Casey  was  one  Irish  trooper  of  thousands  who  varied 
the  song  and  tune  to  suit  his  taste.  The  content  alone  they 
all  held.  Drill!  They  were  laborers  who  could  turn  into 
regiments  at  a  word. 

They  shaved  their  stubby  beards  and  donned  their  best — 
a  bronzed,  sturdy,  cheery  army  of  wild  boys.  The  curse 
rested  but  lightly  upon  their  broad  shoulders. 

Strangely  enough,  the  morning  began  without  the  gusty 
wind  so  common  to  that  latitude,  and  the  six  inches  of 
powdery  white  dust  did  not  rise.  The  wind,  too,  waited. 
The  powers  of  heaven  smiled  in  the  clear,  quiet  morning, 
but  the  powers  of  hell  waited — for  the  hours  to  come,  the 
night  and  the  darkness. 

At  nine  o'clock  a  mob  of  five  thousand  men  had  con 
gregated  around  the  station,  most  of  them  out  in  the 
open,  on  the  desert  side  of  the  track.  They  were  waiting 
for  the  pay-train  to  arrive.  This  hour  was  the  only  orderly 
one  that  Benton  ever  saw.  There  were  laughter,  profanity, 
play — a  continuous  hum,  but  compared  to  Benton's  usurl 
turmoil,  it  was  pleasant.  The  workmen  talked  in  groups, 
and,  like  all  crowds  of  men  sober  and  unexcited,  they  were 
given  largely  to  badinage  and  idle  talk. 

"Wot  was  ut  I  owed  ye,  Moike?"  asked  a  strapping 
grader. 

Moike  scratched  his  head.  "Wor  it  thorty  dollars  this 
toime?" 

"  It  wor,"  replied  the  other.   "  Moike,  yez  hev  a  mimory." 

A  big  negro  pushed  out  his  huge  jaw  and  blustered  at 
his  fellows. 

"Fs  a-gwine  to  bust  thet  yaller  nigger's  haid,"  he 
declared. 

247 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"'Bill,  he's  your  fr'en'.  Cool  down,  man,  cool  down/'  re 
plied  a  comrade. 

A  teamster  was  writing  a  letter  in  lead-pencil,  using  a 
board  over  his  knees. 

"Jim,  you  goin'  to  send  money  home?"  queried  a  fellow- 
laborer. 

"I  am  that,  an*  first  tiling  when  I  get  my  pay,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Reminds  me  I  owe  for  this  suit  I'm  wearin*.    I'll  drop 
in  an'  settle." 

A  group  of  spikers  held  forth  on  a  little  bank  above 
the  railroad  track,  at  a  point  where  a  few  weeks  before 
they  had  fastened  those  very  rails  with  lusty  blows. 

"Well,  boys,  I  think  I  see  the  smoke  of  our  pay-dirt, 
way  down  the  line,"  said  one. 

"Bandy,  you're  eyes  are  pore,"  replied  another. 

"Yep,  she's  comin',"  said  another.  "'Bout  time,  for  I 
haven't  two-bits  to  my  name." 

"Boys,  no  buckin'  the  tiger  for  me  to-day,"  declared 
Bandy. 

He  was  laughed  at  by  all  except  one  quiet  comrade  who 
gazed  thoughtfully  eastward,  back  over  the  vast  and 
rolling  country.  This  man  was  thinking  of  home,  of  wife 
anc1  little  girl,  of  what  pay-day  meant  for  them. 

Bandy  gave  him  a  friendly  slap  on  the  shoulder. 

"Frank,  you  got  drunk  an'  laid  out  all  night,  last  pay- 
iay." 

Frank  remembered,  but  he  did  not  say  what  he  had  for 
gotten  that  last  pay-day. 

A  long  and  gradual  slope  led  from  Benton  down  across  the 
barren  desert  toward  Medicine  Bow.  The  railroad  track 
split  it  and  narrowed  to  a  mere  thread  upon  the  horizon. 
The  crowd  of  watching,  waiting  men  saw  smoke  rise  over 
that  horizon  line,  and  a  dark,  flat,  creeping  object.  Through 
the  big  throng  ran  a  restless  murmur.  The  train  was  in 
sight.  It  might  have  been  a  harbinger  of  evil,  for  a  subtle 

248 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

change,  nervous,  impatient,  brooding,  visited  that  multi 
tude.  A  slow  movement  closed  up  the  disintegrated  crowd 
and  a  current  of  men  worked  forward  to  encounter  resist 
ance  and  opposing  currents.  They  had  begun  to  crowd 
for  advantageous  positions  closer  to  the  pay-car  so  as  to 
be  the  first  in  line. 

A  fight  started  somewhere,  full  of  loud  curses  and  dull 
blows;  and  then  a  jostling  mass  tried  the  temper  of  the 
slow-marching  men.  Some  boss  yelled  an  order  from  a 
box-car,  and  he  was  hooted.  There  was  no  order.  When 
the  train  whistled  for  Benton  a  hoarse  and  sustained 
shout  ran  through  the  mob,  not  from  all  lips,  nor  from  any 
massed  group,  but  taken  up  from  man  to  man — a  strange 
sound,  the  first  note  of  calling  Benton. 

The  train  arrived.  Troops  alighting  preserved  order 
near  the  pay-car;  and  out  of  the  dense  mob  a  slow  stream 
of  men  flowed  into  the  car  at  one  end  and  out  again  at  the 
other. 

Bates,  a  giant  digger  and  a  bully,  was  the  first  man  in 
the  line,  the  first  to  get  his  little  share  of  the  fortunes  in 
gold  passing  out  of  the  car  that  day. 

Long  before  half  of  that  mob  had  received  its  pay  Bates 
lay  dead  upon  a  sanded  floor,  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl. 

And  the  Irishman  Mike  had  received  his  thirty  dollars., 

And  the  big  negro  had  broken  the  head  of  his  friend. 

And  the  teamster  had  forgotten  to  send  money  home. 

And  his  comrade  had  neglected  to  settle  for  the  suit  oi 
clothes  he  was  wearing. 

And  Bandy,  for  all  his  vows,  had  gone  straight  for  bucking 
the  tiger. 

And  Frank,  who  had  gotten  drunk  last  pay-day,  had 
been  mindful  of  wife  and  little  girl  far  away  and  had  done 
his  duty. 

As  the  spirit  of  the  gangs  changed  with  the  corning  of 
the  gold,  so  did  that  of  the  day. 
17  249 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

The  wind  began  to  blow,  the  dust  began  to  fly,  the  sun 
began  to  burn;  and  the  freshness  and  serenity  of  the 
morning  passed. 

Main  street  in  Benton  became  black-streaked  with 
men,  white-sheeted  with  dust.  There  was  a  whining  whistle 
in  the  wind  as  it  swooped  down.  It  complained;  it  threat 
ened;  it  strengthened;  and  from  the  heating  desert  it 
blew  in  stiflingly  hot.  A  steady  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
rattled  the  loose  boards  as  the  army  marched  down  upon 
Benton.  It  moved  slowly,  the  first  heave  of  a  great  mass 
getting  under  way.  Stores  and  shops,  restaurants  and  hotels 
and  saloons,  took  toll  from  these  first  comers.  Benton 
swallowed  up  the  builders  as  fast  as  they  marched  from  the 
pay-train.  It  had  an  insatiable  maw.  The  bands  played 
martial  airs,  and  soldiers  who  had  lived  through  the 
Rebellion  felt  the  thrill  and  the  quick-step  and  the  call  of 
other  days. 

Toward  afternoon  Benton  began  to  hurry.  The  hour 
was  approaching  when  crowded  halls  and  tents  must  make 
room  for  fresh  and  unspent  gangs.  The  swarms  of  men 
still  marched  up  the  street.  Benton  was  gay  and  noisy 
and  busy  then.  White  shirts  and  blue  and  red  plaid  held 
their  brightness  despite  the  dust.  Gaudily  dressed  women 
passed  in  and  out  of  the  halls.  All  was  excitement,  move 
ment,  color,  merriment,  and  dust  and  wind  and  heat.  The 
crowds  moved  on  because  they  were  pushed  on.  Music, 
laughter,  shuffling  feet  and  clinking  glass,  a  steady  tramp, 
voices  low  and  voices  loud,  the  hoarse  brawl  of  the  barker — 
all  these  varying  elements  merged  into  a  roar — a  roar  that 
started  with  a  merry  note  and  swelled  to  a  nameless  din. 

The  sun  set,  the  twilight  fell,  the  wind  went  down,  the 
dust  settled,  and  night  mantled  Benton.  The  roar  of  the 
day  became  subdued.  It  resembled  the  purr  of  a  gorging 
hyena.  The  yellow  and  glaring  torches,  the  bright  lamps, 
the  dim,  pale  lights  behind  tent  walls,  all  accentuated  the 
blackness  of  the  night  and  filled  space  with  shadows,  like 

250 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

specters.  Benton's  streets  were  full  of  drunken  men,  stag 
gering  back  along  the  road  upon  which  they  had  marched 
in.  No  woman  now  shocwed  herself.  The  darkness  seemed 
a  cloak,  cruel  yet  pitiful.  It  hid  the  flight  of  a  man  running 
from  fear;  it  softened  the  sounds  of  brawling  and  deadened 
the  pistol-shot.  Under  its  cover  soldiers  slunk  away  so- 
'  bered  and  ashamed,  and  murderous  bandits  waited  in 
ambush,  and  brawny  porters  dragged  men  by  the  heels, 
and  young  gamblers  in  the  flush  of  success  hurried  to 
new  games,  and  broken  wanderers  sought  some  place  to 
rest,  and  a  long  line  of  the  vicious,  of  mixed  dialect,  and 
of  different  colors,  filed  down  in  the  dark  to  the  tents  of  lust. 

Life  indoors  that  night  in  Benton  was  monstrous,  won 
derful,  and  hideous. 

Every  saloon  was  packed,  and  every  dive  and  room 
filled  with  a  hoarse,  violent  mob  of  furious  men:  furious 
with  mirth,  furious  with  drink,  furious  with  wildness — in 
sane  and  lecherous,  spilling  gold  and  blood. 

The  gold  that  did  not  flow  over  the  bars  went  into  the 
greedy  hands  of  the  cold,  swift  gamblers  or  into  the 
clutching  fingers  of  wild-eyed  women.  The  big  gambling- 
hell  had  extra  lights,  extra  attendants,  extra  tables;  and 
there  round  the  great  glittering  mirror-blazing  bar  struggled 
and  -laughed  and  shouted  a  drink-sodden  mass  of  hu 
manity.  And  all  through  the  rest  of  the  big  room  groups 
and  knots  of  men  stood  and  sat  around  tables,  intent, 
absorbed,  obsessed,  listening  with  strained  ears,  watching 
with  wild  eyes,  reaching  with  shaking  hands — only  to 
gasp  and  throw  down  their  cards  and  push  rolls  of  gold 
toward  cold-faced  gamblers,  with  a  muttered  curse.  This 
was  the  night  of  golden  harvest  for  the  black-garbed, 
steel-nerved,  cold-eyed  card-sharps.  They  knew  the  brevity 
of  time,  and  of  hour,  and  of  life. 

In  the  dancing-halls  there  was  a  maddening  whirl,  an 
immense  and  incredible  hilarity,  a  wild  fling  of  unleashed,, 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

burly  men,  an  honest  drunken  spree.  But  there  was  also 
the  hideous,  red-eyed  drunkenness  that  did  not  spring 
from  drink;  the  unveiled  passion,  the  brazen  lure,  the  raw, 
corrupt,  and  terrible  presence  of  bad  women  in  absolute 
license  at  a  wild  and  baneful  hour. 

That  was  the  last  pay-day  Beauty  Stanton's  dancing- 
hall  ever  saw.  Likewise  it  was  to  be  the  last  she  should 
ever  see.  In  the  madness  of  that  night  there  was  written 
finality — the  end.  Benton  had  reached  its  greatest, 
wildest,  blackest,  vilest.  But  not  its  deadliest!  That 
tnust  come — later — as  an  aftermath.  But  the  height  or 
the  depth  was  reached. 

The  scene  at  midnight  was  unreal,  livid,  medieval. 
Dance  of  cannibals,  dance  of  sun- worshipers,  dance  of 
Apaches  on  the  war-path,  dance  of  cliff-dwellers  wild  over 
the  massacre  of  a  dreaded  foe — only  these  orgies  might  have 
been  comparable  to  that  whirl  of  gold  and  lust  in  Beauty 
Stanton's  parlors. 

Benton  seemed  breathing  hard,  laboring  under  its  load 
of  evil,  dancing  toward  its  close. 

Night  wore  on  and  the  hour  of  dawn  approached. 

The  lamps  were  dead;  the  tents  were  dark;  the  music 
was  stilled ;  and  the  low,  soft  roar  was  but  a  hollow  mockery 
of  its  earlier  strength. 

Like  specters  men  staggered  slowly  and  wanderingly 
through  the  gray  streets.  Gray  ghosts!  All  was  gray. 
A  vacant  laugh  pealed  out  and  a  strident  curse,  and  then 
again  the  low  murmur  prevailed.  Benton  was  going  to 
rest.  Weary,  drunken,  spent  nature  sought  oblivion — on. 
disordered  beds,  on  hard  floors,  and  in  dusty  corners.  An 
immense  and  hovering  shadow  held  the  tents  and  halls 
and  streets.  Through  this  opaque  gloom  the  silent  and 
the  mumbling  revelers  reeled  along.  Louder  voices  broke 
the  spell  only  for  an  instant.  Death  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  main  street,  in  the  dust — and  no  passing  man 
halted.  It  lay  as  well  down  the  side  streets,  in  sandy 
ditches,  and  on  tent  floors,  and  behind  the  bar  of  the 

352 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

gambling-hell,  and  in  a  corner  of  Beauty  Stanton's  parlor. 
Likewise  death  had  his  counterpart  in  hundreds  of  pros 
trate  men,  who  lay  in  drunken  stupor,  asleep,  insensible 
to  the  dust  in  their  faces.  No  one  answered  the  low  moans 
of  the  man  who,  stabbed  and  robbed,  had  crawled  so  far 
and  could  crawl  no  farther. 

But  the  dawn  would  not  stay  back  in  order  to  hide 
Benton's  hideousness.  The  gray  lifted  out  of  the  streets, 
the  shadows  lightened,  the  east  kindled,  and  the  sweet, 
soft  freshness  of  a  desert  dawn  came  in  on  the  gentle 
breeze. 

And  when  the  sun  arose,  splendid  and  golden,  with  its 
promise  and  beauty,  it  shone  upon  a  ghastly,  silent,  motion 
less  sleeping  Benton. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Allie  Lee,  again  a  prisoner  in  the  clutches  of  Durade, 
the  days  in  Benton  had  been  mysterious,  the  nights 
dreadful.  In  fear  and  trembling  she  listened  with  throbbing 
ears  to  footsteps  and  low  voices,  ceaseless,  as  of  a  passing 
army,  and  a  strange,  muffled  roar,  rising  and  swelling  ancji 
dying. 

Durade's  caravan  had  entered  Benton  in  the  dark.  Allie 
had  gotten  an  impression  of  wind  and  dust,  lights  and 
many  noisy  hurried  men,  and  a  crowded  jumble  of  tents. 
She  had  lived  in  the  back  room  of  a  canvas  house.  A  door 
opened  out  into  a  little  yard,  fenced  high  with  many  planks, 
over  or  through  which  she  could  not  see.  Here  she  had 
been  allowed  to  walk.  She  had  seen  Durade  once,  the 
morning  after  Fresno  and  his  gang  had  brought  her  to 
Benton,  when  he  had  said  that  meals  would  be  sent  her, 
and  that  she  must  stay  there  until  he  had  secured  better 
quarters.  He  threatened  to  kill  her  if  he  caught  her  in 
another  attempt  to  escape.  Allie  might  have  scaled  the 
high  fence,  but  she  was  more  afraid  of  the  unknown  peril 
outside  than  she  was  of  him. 

She  listened  to  the  mysterious  life  of  Benton,  wondering 
and  fearful;  and  through  the  hours  there  came  to  her  the 
nameless  certainty  of  something  tremendous  and  terrible 
that  was  to  happen  to  her.  But  spirit  and  hope  were  un 
quenchable.  Not  prayer  nor  reason  nor  ignorance  was 
the  source  of  her  sustained  and  inexplicable  courage.  A 
star  shone  over  her  destiny  or  a  good  angel  hovered  near. 
She  sensed  in  a  vague  and  perplexing  way  that  she  must  be 
the  center  of  a  mysterious  cycle  of  events.  The  hours 

2S4 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

were  fraught  with  strain  and  suspense,  yet  they  passed 
fleetingly.  A  glorious  and  saving  moment  was  coming — 
a  meeting  that  would  be  as  terrible  as  sweet.  Benton  held 
her  lover  Neale  and  her  friend  Larry.  They  were  search 
ing  for  her.  She  felt  their  nearness.  It  was  that  which 
kept  her  alive.  She  knew  the  truth  with  her  heart.  And 
while  she  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  every  step,  she  also  shud 
dered,  for  there  was  Durade  with  his  desperadoes. 
Blood  would  be  spilled.  Somewhere,  somehow,  that 
meeting  would  come.  Neale  would  rush  to  her.  And 
the  cowboy!  .  .  .  Allie  remembered  the  red  blaze  of 
his  face,  the  singular,  piercing  blue  of  his  eye,  his 
cool,  easy,  careless  air,  his  drawling  speech — and  under 
neath  all  his  lazy  gentleness  a  deadliness  of  blood  and 
iron. 

So  Allie  Lee  listened  to  all  sounds,  particularly  to  all 
footsteps,  waiting  for  that  one  which  was  to  make  her 
heart  stand  still. 

Some  one  had  entered  the  room  adjoining  hers  and  was 
now  fumbling  at  the  rude  door  which  had  always  been 
barred  from  the  other  side.  It  opened.  Stitt,  the  mute  who 
attended  and  guarded  her,  appeared,  carrying  bundles. 
Entering,  he  deposited  these  upon  Allie's  bed.  Then  he 
made  signs  for  her  to  change  from  the  garb  she  wore  to  the 
clothes  contained  in  the  bundles.  Further,  he  gave  her  to 
understand  that  she  was  to  hurry,  that  she  was  to  be 
taken  away.  With  that  he  went  out,  shutting  and  barring 
the  door  after  him. 

Allie's  hands  shook  as  she  opened  the  packages.  That 
very  hour  might  bring  her  freedom.  She  was  surprised 
to  find  a  complete  outfit  of  woman's  apparel,  well  made 
and  of  fine  material.  Benton,  then,  had  stores  and  women. 
Hurriedly  she  made  the  change,  which  was  very  welcome. 
The  dress  did  not  fit  her  as  well  as  it  might  have  done,  but 
the  bonnet  and  cloak  were  satisfactory,  as  were  also  the 
little  boots.  She  found  a  long,  dark  veil  and  wondered  if 
she  was  expected  to  put  that  on. 

2SS 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

A  knocking  at  the  door  preceded  a  call,  "  Allie,  are  you 
teady?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

The  door  opened.  Durade  entered.  He  appeared  thinner 
than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  with  more  white  in  or  beneath 
his  olive  complexion,  and  there  were  marks  of  strain  and 
of  passion  on  his  face.  Allie  knew  he  labored  under  some 
strong,  suppressed  excitement.  More  and  more  he  seemed 
to  lose  something  of  his  old  character — of  the  stately 
Spanish  manner. 

" Put  that  veil  on,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  ready  for  Benton 
to  see  you." 

"Are  you — taking  me  away?"  she  asked. 

"Only  down  the  street.  I've  a  new  place,"  he  replied. 
"Come.  Stitt  will  bring  your  things." 

Allie  could  not  see  very  well  through  the  heavy  veil 
and  she  stumbled  over  the  rude  threshold.  Durade  took 
hold  of  her  arm  and  presently  led  her  out  into  the  light. 
The  air  was  hot,  windy,  dusty.  The  street  was  full  of 
hurrying  and  lounging  men.  Allie  heard  different  snatches 
of  speech  as  she  and  Durade  went  on.  Some  stared  and 
leered  at  her,  at  which  times  Durade's  hold  tightened  on 
her  arm  and  his  step  quickened.  She  was  certain  no  one 
looked  at  Durade.  Some  man  jostled  her,  another  pinched 
her  arm.  Her  ears  tingled  with  unfamiliar  and  coarse 
speech. 

They  walked  through  heavy  sand  and  dust,  then  along 
a  board  walk,  to  turn  aside  before  what  was  apparently  a 
new  brick  structure,  but  a  closer  view  proved  it  to  be 
only  painted  wood.  The  place  rang  hollow  with  a  sound  of 
hammers.  It  looked  well,  but  did  not  feel  stable  under 
foot.  Durade  led  her  through  two  large  hall-like  rooms 
into  a  small  one,  light  and  newly  furnished. 

"The  best  Benton  afforded,"  said  Durade,  waving  his 
hand.  "You'll  be  comfortable.  There  are  books — news 
papers.  Here's  a  door  opening  into  a  little  room.  It's 
dark,  but  there's  water,  towel,  soap.  And  you've  a  mirror. 

256 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

.  .  .  Allie,  this  is  luxury  to  what  you've  had  to  put  up 
with." 

"It  is,  indeed,"  she  replied,  removing  her  veil,  and  then 
the  cloak  and  bonnet.  "But — am  I  to  be  shut  up  here?" 

"Yes.  Sometimes  at  night  early  I'll  take  you  out  to 
walk.  But  Benton  is—" 

"What?"  she  asked,  as  he  paused. 

"Benton  will  not  last  long,"  he  finished,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.  "There'll  be  another  one  of  these  towns 
out  along  the  line.  We'll  go  there.  And  then  to  Omaha." 

More  than  once  he  had  hinted  at  going  on  eastward. 

"Ill  find  your  mother — some  day,"  he  added,  darkly. 
"If  I  didn't  believe  that  I'd  do  differently  by  you." 

"Why?" 

"I  want  her  to  see  you  as  good  as  she  left  you.  Then! 
.  .  .  Are  you  ever  going  to  tell  me  how  she  gave  me  the  slip  ?" 

"She's  dead,  I  told  you." 

"Allie,  that's  a  lie.  She's  hiding  in  some  trapper's 
cabin  or  among  the  Indians.  I  should  have  hunted  all 
over  that  country  where  you  met  my  caravan.  But  the 
scouts  feared  the  Sioux.  The  Sioux!  We  had  to  run. 
And  so  I  never  got  the  truth  of  your  strange  appearance 
on  that  trail." 

Allie  had  learned  that  reiteration  of  the  fact  of  her 
mother's  death  only  convinced  Durade  the  more  that 
she  must  be  living.  While  he  had  this  hope  she  was  safe 
so  long  as  she  obeyed  him.  A  dark  and  sinister  meaning 
lay  covert  in  his  words.  She  doubted  not  that  he  had 
the  nature  and  the  power  to  use  her  in  order  to  be  revenged 
upon  her  mother.  That  passion  and  gambling  appeared 
to  be  all  for  which  he  lived. 

Suddenly  he  seized  her  fiercely  in  his  arms.  "You're  the 
picture  of  her!" 

Then  slowly  he  released  her  and  the  corded  red  of  his 
neck  subsided.  His  action  had  been  that  of  a  man  robbed 
of  all  he  loved,  who  remembered,  in  a  fury  of  violent 
longing,  hate,  and  despair,  what  he  had  lost  in  life. 

257 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Allie  was  left  alone. 

She  gazed  around  the  room  that  she  expected  to  be  her 
prison  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time.  Walls  and  ceiling 
were  sections,  locking  together,  and  in  some  places  she 
could  see  through  the  cracks.  One  side  opened  upon 
a  tent  wall;  the  other  into  another  room;  the  small  glass 
windows  upon  a  house  of  canvas.  When  Allie  put  her 
hand  against  any  part  of  her  room  she  found  that  it  swayed 
and  creaked.  She  understood  then  that  this  house  had 
been  made  in  sections,  transported  to  Benton  by  train, 
and  hurriedly  thrown  together. 

She  looked  next  at  the  newspapers.  How  strange  to 
read  news  of  the  building  of  the  U.  P.  R. !  The  name  of 
General  Lodge,  chief  engineer,  made  Allie  tremble.  He 
had  predicted  a  fine  future  for  Warren  Neale.  She  read 
that  General  Lodge  now  had  a  special  train  and  that  he 
contemplated  an  inspection  trip  out  as  far  as  the  rails 
were  laid.  She  read  that  the  Pacific  Construction  Company 
was  reputed  to  be  crossing  the  Sierra  Nevada,  that  there 
were  ten  thousand  Chinamen  at  work  on  the  road,  that  the 
day  when  East  and  West  were  to  meet  was  sure  to  come. 
Eagerly  she  searched,  her  heart  thumping,  for  the  name 
of  Neale,  but  she  did  not  find  it.  She  read  in  one  paper 
that  the  Sioux  were  active  along  the  line  between  Medicine 
Bow  and  Kearney.  Every  day  the  workmen  would  sight 
a  band  of  Indians,  and,  growing  accustomed  to  the  sight, 
they  would  become  careless,  and  so  many  lost  their  lives. 
A  massacre  had  occurred  out  on  the  western  end  of  the  road, 
where  the  construction  gangs  were  working.  Day  after 
day  the  Sioux  had  prowled  around,  without  attacking, 
until  the  hardy  and  reckless  laborers  lost  fear  and  caution. 
Then,  one  day,  a  grading  gang  working  a  mile  from  the 
troops  was  set  upon  by  a  band  of  swiftly  riding  warriors, 
and  before  they  could  raise  a  gun  in  defense  were  killed 
and  scalped  in  their  tracks. 

Allie  read  on.  She  devoured  the  news.  Manifestly  the 
world  was  awakening  to  the  reality  of  the  great  railroad. 

258 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

How  glad  Neale  must  be!  Always  he  had  believed  in  the 
greatness  and  the  reality  of  the  U.  P.  R.  Somewhere  along 
that  line  he  was  working — perhaps  every  night  he  rode 
into  Benton.  Her  emotions  overwhelmed  her  as  she 
thought  of  him  so  near,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not 
see  the  print.  Neale  would  never  again  believe  she  was 
dead.  And  indeed  she  did  live!  She  breathed — she 
was  well,  strong,  palpitating.  She  was  sitting  here  in 
Benton,  reading  abt  nt  the  building  of  the  railroad.  She 
wondered  with  a  pang  what  her  disappearance  would 
mean  to  Neale.  He  had  said  his  life  would  be  over  if  he 
lost  her  again.  She  shivered. 

Suddenly  her  eye  rested  on  printed  letters,  familiar  and 
startling.  Allison  Lee! 

" Allison  Lee!"  she  breathed,  very  low.    "My  father!" 

And  she  read  that  Allison  Lee,  commissioner  of  the 
U.  P.  R.  and  contractor  for  big  jobs  along  the  line,  would 
shortly  leave  his  home  in  Council  Bluffs,  to  meet  some  of 
the  directors  in  New  York  City  in  the  interests  of  the 
railroad. 

"If  Durade  and  he  ever  meet!"  she  whispered. 

And  in  that  portent  she  saw  loom  on  the  gambler's 
horizon  another  cloud.  In  his  egotism  and  passion  and 
despair  he  was  risking  more  than  he  knew.  He  could  not 
hope  to  keep  her  a  prisoner  for  very  long.  Allie  felt  again 
the  gathering  surety  of  an  approaching  climax. 

"My  danger  is,  he  may  harm  me,  use  me  for  his 
gambling  lure,  or  kill  me,"  she  murmured.  And  her 
prevision  of  salvation  contended  with  the  dark  menace  of 
the  hour.  But,  as  always,  she  rose  above  hopelessness. 

•Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the 
mute,  Stitt,  who  brought  her  a  few  effects  left  at  the  former 
place,  and  then  a  tray  holding  her  dinner. 

That  day  passed  swiftly. 

Darkness  came,  bringing  a  strange  augmentation  of  the 
sounds  with  which  Allie  had  become  familiar.  She  did 
not  use  her  lamp,  for  she  had  become  accustomed  to  being 

259 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

without  one,  and  she  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  a  light.  Only 
a  dim,  pale  glow  came  in  at  her  window.  But  the  roar  of 
Benton — that  grew  as  night  fell.  She  had  heard  something 
similar  in  the  gold-camps  of  California  and  in  the  grading- 
camps  where  Durade  had  lingered;  this  was  at  once  the 
same  and  yet  vastly  different.  She  lay  listening  and  think 
ing.  The  low  roar  was  that  of  human  beings,  and  any  one 
of  its  many  constituents  seemed  difficult  to  distinguish. 
Voices — footsteps — movement — music — mirth — dancing  — 
clink  of  gold  and  glasses — the  high,  shrill  laugh  of  a  woman 
— the  loud,  vacant  laugh  of  a  man — sudden  gust  of  dust- 
laden  wind  sweeping  overhead  ...  all  these  blended 
in  the  mysterious  sound  that  voiced  the  strife  and  agony 
of  Benton.  For  hours  it  kept  her  awake;  and  when  she 
did  fall  asleep  it  was  so  late  in  the  night  that,  upon  awak 
ening  next  day,  she  thought  it  must  be  noon  or  later. 

That  day  passed  and  another  night  came.  It  brought  a 
change  in  that  the  house  she  was  in  became  alive  and 
roaring.  Durade  had  gotten  his  establishment  under 
way.  Allie  lay  in  sleepless  suspense.  Rough,  noisy, 
thick-voiced  men  appeared  to  be  close  to  her,  in  one  of 
the  rooms  adjoining  hers,  and  outside  in  the  tents.  The 
room,  however,  into  which  hers  opened  was  not  entered. 
Dawn  had  come  before  Allie  fell  asleep. 

Thus  days  passed  during  which  she  saw  only  the  attend 
ant,  Stitt,  and  Allie  began  to  feel  a  strain  that  she  be 
lieved  would  be  even  harder  on  her  than  direct  contact  with 
Benton  life.  While  she  was  shut  up  there,  what  chance 
had  she  of  ever  seeing  Neale  or  Larry  even  if  they  were  in 
Benton?  Durade  had  said  he  would  take  her  outdoors 
occasionally,  but  she  had  not  seen  him.  Restlessness  and 
gloom  began  to  weigh  upon  her  and  she  was  in  continual 
conflict  with  herself.  She  began  to  think  of  disobeying 
Durade.  Something  would  happen  to  him  sooner  or 
later,  and  in  that  event  what  was  she  to  do?  Why  not 
try  and  escape?  Whatever  the  evil  of  Benton,  it  was  pos 
sible  that  she  might  not  fall  into  bad  hands.  Anything 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

would  be  better  than  her  confinement  here,  with  no  sight 
of  the  sun,  with  no  one  to  speak  to,  with  nothing  to  do( 
but  brood  and  fight  her  fancies  and  doubts,  and  listen  to 
that  ceaseless,  soft,  mysterious  din.  Allie  believed  she 
could  not  long  bear  that.  Now  and  then  occurred  a  change 
in  her  mind  which  frightened  her.  It  was  a  regurgitation 
of  the  old  tide  of  somber  horror  which  had  submerged  her 
after  the  murder  of  her  mother. 

She  was  working  herself  into  a  frenzied  state  when  unr 
expectedly  Durade  came  to  her  room.  At  first  glance 
she  hardly  knew  him.  He  looked  thin  and  worn;  his  eyes 
glittered;  his  hands  shook;  and  the  strange  radiance  that 
emanated  from  him  when  his  passion  for  gambling  had 
been  crowned  with  success  shone  stronger  than  Allie  had 
ever  seen  it. 

"Allie,  the  time's  come,"  he  said.  He  seemed  to  be 
looking  back  into  the  past. 

"What  time?"  she  asked. 

"For  you  to  do  for  me— as  your  mother  did  before  you." 

"I— 1-— don't  understand." 

"Make  yourself  beautiful!" 

"Beautiful!  .  .  .  How?"  Allie  had  an  inkling  of 
what  he  meant,  but  all  her  mind  repudiated  the  horrible 
suggestion. 

Durade  laughed.  He  had  indeed  changed.  He  seemed 
a  weaker  man.  Benton  was  acting  powerfully  upon  him. 

"How  little  vanity  you  have!  .  .  .  Allie,  you  are 
beautiful  now  or  at  any  time.  You'll  be  so  when  you're  old 
or  dead.  ...  I  mean  for  you  to  show  more  of  your 
beauty.  .  .  .  Let  down  your  hair.  Braid  it  a  little. 
Put  on  a  white  waist.  Open  it  at  the  neck.  .  .  .  You  re 
member  how  your  mother  did." 

Allie  stared  at  him,  slowly  paling.  She  could  not  speak. 
It  had  come — the  crisis  that  she  had  dreaded. 

"You  look  like  a  ghost!"  Durade  exclaimed.  "Like 
she  did,  years  ago  when  I  told  her — this  same  thing — the 
first  time!" 

ad/ 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"You  mean  to  use  me — as  you  used  her?"  faltered 
Allie. 

"Yes.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid  or  sick.  I'll  pick  the 
men  who  are  to  see  you.  You'll  only  be  looked  at.  I'll 
<lways  be  with  you." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Be  ready  in  the  afternoon  when  I  call  you." 

"I  know  now  why  my  mother  hated  you,"  burst  out 
Allie.  For  the  first  time  she  too  hated  him,  and  felt  the 
stronger  for  it. 

"She'll  pay  for  that  hate,  and  so  will  you,"  he  replied, 
passionately.  His  physical  action  seemed  involuntary — a 
shrinking  as  if  from  a  stab.  Then  followed  swift  violence. 
He  struck  Allie  across  the  mouth  with  his  open  hand,  a 
hard  blow,  almost  knocking  her  down. 

"Don't  let  me  hear  that  from  you  again!"  he  continued, 
furiously. 

With  that  he  left  the  room,  closing  but  not  barring  the 
doer. 

Allie  put  her  hand  to  her  lips.  They  were  bleeding. 
She  tasted  her  own  warm  and  salty  blood.  Then  there 
was  born  in  her  something  that  burned  and  throbbed  and 
swelled  and  drove  out  all  her  vacillations.  That  blow 
was  what  she  had  needed.  There  was  a  certainty  now  as 
to  her  peril,  just  as  there  was  imperious  call  for  her  to 
help  herself  and  save  herself. 

"Neale  or  Larry  will  visit  Durade's,"  she  soliloquized, 
with  her  pulses  beating  fast.  "And  if  they  do  not  come — 
some  one  else  will  .  .  .  some  man  I  can  trust." 

Therefore  she  welcomed  Durade's  ultimatum.  She 
paid  more  heed  to  the  brushing  and  arranging  of  her  hair, 
and  to  her  appearance,  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  The 
white  of  her  throat  and  neck  mantled  red  as  she  exposed 
them,  intentionally,  for  the  gaze  of  men.  Her  beauty 
was  to  be  used  as  had  been  her  mother's.  But  there  would 
be  some  one  who  would  understand,  some  one  to  pity  and 
help  her. 

262 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

She  had  not  long  to  meditate  and  wait.  She  heard  the 
heavy  steps  and  voices  of  men  entering  the  room  next 
hers. 

Presently  Durade  called  her.  With  a  beating  heart 
Allie  rose  and  pushed  open  the  door.  From  that  moment 
there  never  would  be  any  more  monotony  for  her — nor 
peace — nor  safety.  Yet  she  was  glad,  and  faced  the  room 
bravely,  for  Neale  or  Larry  might  be  there. 

Durade  had  furnished  this  larger  place  luxuriously,  and 
evidently  intended  to  use  it  for  a  private  gambling-den, 
where  he  would  bring  picked  gamesters.  Allie  saw  about 
eight  or  ten  men  who  resembled  miners  or  laborers. 

Durade  led  her  to  a  table  that  had  been  placed  under 
some  shelves  which  were  littered  with  bottles  and  glasses. 
He  gave  her  instructions  what  to  do  when  called  upon, 
saying  that  Stitt  would  help  her;  then  motioning  her  to  a 
chair,  he  went  back  to  the  men.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to 
raise  her  eyes,  and  she  could  not  at  once  do  so. 

" Durade,  who's  the  girl?"  asked  a  man. 

The  gambler  vouchsafed  for  reply  only  a  mysterious 
smile. 

"Bet  she's  from  California,"  said  another.  "They 
bloom  like  that  out  there." 

"Now,  ain't  she  your  daughter?"  queried  a  third. 

But  Durade  chose  to  be  mysterious.  In  that  he  left 
his  guests  license  for  covert  glances  without  the  certainty 
which  would  permit  of  brutal  boldness. 

They  gathered  around  a  table  to  play  faro.  Then  Durade 
called  for  drinks.  This  startled  Allie  and  she  hastened 
to  comply  with  his  demand.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes 
and  met  the  glances  of  these  men  she  had  a  strange  feeling 
that  somehow  recalled  the  California  days.  Her  legs  were 
weak  under  her;  a  hot  anger  labored  under  her  breast; 
she  had  to  drag  her  reluctant  feet  across  the  room.  Her 
spirit  sank,  and  then  leaped.  It  whispered  that  looks 
and  words  and  touches  could  only  hurt  and  shame  her  for 
this  hour  of  her  evil  plight.  They  must  rouse  her  resist- 

263 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

ance  and  cunning  wit.  It  was  a  fact  that  she  was  help 
less  for  the  present.  But  she  still  lived,  and  her  love  was 
infinite. 

Fresno  was  there,  throwing  dice  with  two  soldiers.  To 
his  ugliness  had  been  added  something  that  had  robbed 
his  face  of  the  bronze  tinge  of  outdoor  life  and  had  given 
it  red  and  swollen  lines  and  shades  of  beastly  greed.  Benton 
had  made  a  bad  man  worse. 

Mull  was  there,  heavier  than  when  he  had  ruled  the 
grading-camp,  sodden  with  drink,  thick-lipped  and  red- 
cheeked,  burly,  brutal,  and  still  showing  in  every  action  | 
and  loud  word  the  bully.  He  was  whirling  a  wheel  and 
rolling  a  ball  and  calling  out  in  his  heavy  voice.  With 
him  was  a  little,  sallow-faced  man,  like  a  wolf,  with  sneaky, 
downcast  eyes  and  restless  hands.  He  answered  to  the 
name  of  Andy.  These  two  were  engaged  in  fleecing  several 
blue-shirted,  half-drunken  spikers. 

Durade  was  playing  faro  with  four  other  men,  or  at 
least  there  were  that  number  seated  with  him.  One,  whose 
back  was  turned  toward  Allie,  wore  black,  and  looked  and 
seemed  different  from  the  others.  He  did  not  talk  nor' 
drink.  Evidently  his  winning  aggravated  Durade.  Pres 
ently  Durade  addressed  the  man  as  Jones. 

Then  there  were  several  others  standing  around,  dL 
viding  their  attention  between  Allie  and  the  gamblers. 
The  door  opened  occasionally,  and  each  time  a  different 
man  entered,  held  a  moment's  whispered  conversation 
with  Durade,  and  then  went  out.  These  men  were  of 
the  same  villainous  aspect  that  characterized  Fresno. 
Durade  had  surrounded  himself  with  lieutenants  and 
comrades  who  might  be  counted  upon  to  do  anything. 

Allie  was  not  long  in  gathering  this  fact,  nor  that  there 
were  subtle  signs  of  suspicion  among  the  gamesters.  Most 
of  them  had  gotten  under  the  influence  of  drink  that 
Durade  kept  ordering.  Evidently  he  furnished  this  liquor 
free  and  with  a  purpose. 

The  afternoon's  play  ended  shortly.     So  far  as  Allie 

264 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

could  see,  Jones,  the  man  in  black,  a  pale,  thin-lipped,  cold- 
eyed  gambler,  was  the  only  guest  to  win.  Durade's  manner 
was  not  pleasant  while  he  paid  over  his  debts.  Durade 
always  had  been  a  poor  loser. 

"  Jones,  you'll  sit  in  to-morrow, "  said  Durade. 

"Maybe,"  replied  the  other. 

"Why  not?  You're  winner,"  retorted  Durade,  hot 
headed  in  an  instant. 

"Winners  are  choosers,"  returned  Jones,  with  an  enig 
matic  smile.  His  hard,  cold  eyes  shifted  to  Allie  and  seemed 
to  pierce  her,  then  went  back  to  Durade  and  Mull  and 
Fresno.  Plain  it  was  to  Allie,  with  her  woman's  intuition, 
that  if  Jones  returned  it  would  not  be  because  he  trusted 
that  trio.  Durade  apparently  made  an  effort  to  swallow 
his  resentment,  but  the  gambling  pallor  of  his  face  had 
never  been  more  marked.  He  went  out  with  Jones,  and 
the  others  slowly  followed. 

Fresno  approached  Allie. 

"Hullo,  gurly!  You  sure  look  purtier  than  in  thet 
buckskin  outfit,"  he  leered. 

Allie  got  up,  ready  for  flight  or  defense.  Durade  had 
forgotten  her. 

Fresno  saw  her  glance  at  the  door. 

"He's  goin'  to  the  bad,"  he  went  on,  with  his  big  hand 
indicating  the  door.  "Benton's  too  hot  fer  his  kind. 
He'll  not  git  up  some  fine  mornin'.  .  .  .  An*  you'd  better 
cotton  to  me.  You  ain't  his  kin — an'  he  hates  you  an1 
you  hate  him.  I  seen  thet.  I'm  no  fool.  I'm  sorta  gone 
on  you.  I  wish  I  hadn't  fetched  you  back  to  him." 

"Fresno,  I'll  tell  Durade,"  replied  Allie,  forcing  her  lips 
to  be  firm.  If  she  expected  to  intimidate  him  she  was 
disappointed. 

Fresno  leered  wisely.  "You'd  better  not.  Fer  I'll  kill 
him,  an'  then  you'll  be  a  sweet  little  chunk  of  meat  among 
a  lot  of  wolves!" 

He  laughed  and  his  large  frame  lurched  closer.  He  wore 
a  heavy  gun  and  a  knife  in  his  belt.  Also  there  protrdded 

18  265 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  butt  of  a  pistol  from  the  inside  of  his  open  vest.  Allie 
felt  the  heat  from  his  huge  body,  and  she  smelled  the 
whisky  upon  him,  and  sensed  the  base,  faithless,  malignant 
animalism  of  the  desperado.  Assuredly,  if  he  had  any  fear, 
it  was  not  of  Durade. 

"I'm  sorta  gone  on  you  myself,"  repeated  Fresno. 
"An'  Durade's  a  greaser.  He's  runnin'  a  crooked  game. 
All  these  games  are  crooked.  But  Benton  won't  stand  for 
a  polite  greaser  who  talks  sweet  an'  gambles  crooked. 
Mebbe  no  one's  told  you  what  this  place  Benton  is." 

"I  haven't  heard.  Tell  me,"  replied  Allie.  She  might 
learn  from  any  one. 

Fresno  appeared  at  fault  for  speech.  "Benton's  a  bee 
hive,"  he  replied,  presently.  "An'  when  the  bees  come 
home  with  their  honey,  why,  the  red  ants  an'  scorpions  an* 
centipedes  an'  rattlesnakes  git  busy.  I've  seen  some 
places  in  my  time,  but  Benton  beats  'em  alL  .  .  .  Say, 
I'll  sneak  you  out  at  nights  to  see  what's  goin'  on,  an' 
I'll  treat  you  handsome.  I'm  sorta — " 

The  entrance  of  Durade  cut  short  Fresno's  further 
speech. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  her?"  demanded  Durade,  in 
anger. 

"I  was  jest  tellin'  her  about  what  a  place  Benton  is." 
replied  Fresno. 

"Allie,  is  that  true?"  queried  Durade,  sharply. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"Fresno,  I  did  not  like  your  looks." 

"Boss,  if  you  don't  like  'em  you  know  what  you  can 
do,"  rejoined  Fresno,  impudently,  and  he  lounged  out 
of  the  room. 

"Allie,  these  men  are  all  bad,"  said  Durade.  "You 
must  avoid  them  when  my  back's  turned.  I  cannot  run 
my  place  without  them,  so  I  am  compelled  to  endure 
much." 

Allie's  attendant  came  in  with  her  supper  and  she  went 
to  her  room. 

266 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

Thus  began  Allie  Lee's  life  as  an  unwilling  and  innocent 
accomplice  of  Durade  in  his  retrogression  from  the  status 
of  a  gambler  to  that  of  a  criminal.  In  California  he  had 
played  the  game,  diamond  cut  diamond.  But  he  had 
broken.  His  hope,  spirit,  luck,  nerve  were  gone.  The 
bottle  and  Benton  had  almost  destroyed  his  skill  at  pro 
fessional  gambling. 

The  days  passed  swiftly.  Every  afternoon  Durade ' 
introduced  a  new  company  to  his  private  den.  Few  ever 
came  twice.  In  this  there  was  a  grain  of  hope,  for  if  all  the 
men  in  Benton,  or  out  on  the  road,  could  only  pass  through 
Durade's  hall,  the  time  would  come  when  she  would  meet 
Neale  or  Larry.  She  lived  for  that.  She  was  constantly 
on  the  lookout  for  a  man  she  could  trust  with  her  story. 
Honest-faced  laborers  were  not  wanting  in  the  stream  of 
visitors  Durade  ushered  into  her  presence,  but  either  they 
were  drunk  or  obsessed  by  gambling,  or  she  found  no 
opportunity  to  make  her  appeal. 

These  afternoons  grew  to  be  hideous  for  Allie.  She  had 
been  subjected  to  every  possible  attention,  annoyance, 
indignity,  and  insult,  outside  of  direct  violence.  She  could 
only  shut  her  eyes  and  ears  and  lips.  Fresno  found  many 
opportunities  to  approach  her,  sometimes  in  Durade's 
presence,  the  gambler  being  blind  to  all  but  the  cards  and 
gold.  At  such  times  Allie  wished  she  was  sightless  and  deaf 
and  feelingless.  But  after  she  was  safely  in  her  room  again 
she  told  herself  nothing  had  happened.  She  was  still 
the  same  as  she  had  always  been.  And  sleep  obliterated 
quickly  what  she  had  suffered.  Every  day  was  one  nearer 
to  that  fateful  and  approaching  moment.  And  when  that 
moment  did  come  what  would  all  this  horror  amount  to? 
It  would  fade — be  as  nothing.  She  would  not  let  words 
and  eyes  harm  her.  They  were  not  tangible — they  had  no 
substance  for  her.  They  made  her  sick  with  rage  and  revolt 
at  the  moment,  but  they  had  no  power,  no  taint,  no  endur 
ance.  They  were  evil  passing  winds. 

As  she  saw  Durade's  retrogression,  so  she  saw  the  changes 

267 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

in  all  about  him.  His  winnings  were  large  and  his  strange 
passion  for  play  increased  with  them.  The  free  gold 
that  enriched  Fresno  and  Mull  and  Andy  only  augmented 
their  native  ferocity.  There  were  also  Durade's  other 
helpers — Black,  his  swarthy  doorkeeper,  a  pallid  fellow 
called  Dayss,  who  always  glanced  behind  him,  and  Grist, 
a  short,  lame,  bullet-headed,  silent  man — all  of  them 
under  the  spell  of  the  green  cloth. 

With  Durade's  success  had  come  the  craze  for  bigger 
stakes,  and  these  could  only  be  played  for  with  other 
gamblers.  So  the  black-frocked,  cold-faced  sharps  became 
frequent  visitors  at  Durade's.  Jones,  the  professional, 
won  on  that  second  visit — a  fatal  winning  for  him.  Allie 
saw  the  giant  Fresno  suddenly  fling  himself  upon  Jones 
and  bear  him  to  the  floor.  Then  Allie  fled  to  her  room. 
But  she  heard  curses — a  shot — a  groan — Durade's  loud 
voice  proclaiming  that  the  gambler  had  cheated — and 
then  the  scraping  of  a  heavy  body  being  dragged  out. 

This  murder  horrified  Allie,  yet  sharpened  her  senses. 
,  Providence  had  protected  her.  Durade  had  grown  rich — 
wild — vain — mad  to  pit  himself  against  the  coolest  and 
most  skilful  gamblers  in  Benton — and  therefore  his  end 
was  imminent.  Allie  lay  in  the  dark,  listening  to  Benton's 
strange  wailing  roar,  sad,  yet  hideous,  and  out  of  what  she 
had  seen  and  heard,  and  from  the  mournful  message  on  the 
night  wind,  she  realized  how  closely  associated  were  gold 
and  evil  and  men,  and  how  inevitably  they  must  lead 
to  lawlessness  and  to  bloodshed  and  to  death. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

NEALE  conceived  an  idea  that  he  was  in  line  for  the 
long-looked-for    promotion.     Neither  the  chief   nor 
Baxter  gave  any  suggestion  of  a  hint  of  such  possibility, 
but  more  and  more,  as  the  work  rapidly  progressed,  Neale 
had  been  intrusted  with  important  inspections. 

Long  since  he  had  discovered  his  talent  for  difficult 
engineering  problems,  and  with  experience  had  come  con 
fidence  in  his  powers.  He  had  been  sent  from  place  to  place, 
in  each  case  with  favorable  results.  General  Lodge  con 
sulted  him,  Baxter  relied  upon  him,  the  young  engineers 
learned  from  him.  And  when  Baxter  and  his  assistants 
were  sent  on  ahead  into  the  hills  Neale  had  an  enormous 
amount  of  work  on  his  hands.  Still  he  usually  managed 
to  get  back  to  Benton  at  night. 

Whereupon  he  became  a  seeker,  a  searcher;  he  believed 
there  was  not  a  tent  or  a  hut  or  a  store  or  a  hall  in  the 
town  that  he  had  not  visited.  But  he  found  no  clue  of 
Allie;  he  never  encountered  the  well-remembered  face  of  the 
bandit  Fresno.  He  saw  more  than  one  Spaniard  and  many 
Mexicans,  not  one  of  whom  could  have  been  the  gambler 
Durade. 

But  Benton  was  too  full,  too  changeful,  too  secret  to 
be  thoroughly  searched  in  little  time.  Neale  bore  his 
burden,  although  it  grew  heavier  each  day.  And  his 
growing  work  on  the  railroad  was  his  salvation. 

One  morning  he  went  to  the  telegraph  station,  expecting 
orders  from  General  Lodge.  He  found  the  chief's  special 
train  at  the  station,  headed  east. 

"Neale,  I'm  off  for  Omaha,"  said  Lodge.  "Big  pow 
wow.  The  directors  roaring  again!" 

260 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

"What  about?"  queried  Neale,  always  alive  to  interest 
of  that  nature. 

"Cost  of  the  construction.  What  else?  Neale,  there 
are  two  kinds  of  men  building  the  U.  P.  R. — men  who  see 
the  meaning  of  the  great  work,  and  men  who  see  only 
the  gold  in  it." 

"And  they  conflict!  .  .   .  That's  what  you  mean?" 

"Exactly.  We've  been  years  on  the  job  now,  and  the 
nearer  the  meeting  of  rails  from  west  to  east  the  harder 
become  our  problems.  Henney  is  played  out,  Boone  is 
ill,  and  Baxter  won't  last  much  longer.  If  I  were  not  an 
old  soldier,  I  would  be  done  up  now." 

"Chief,  I  can  see  only  success,"  replied  Neale,  with 
spirit. 

"Assuredly.  We  see  with  the  same  eyes,"  said  General 
Lodge,  smiling.  "Neale,  I've  a  job  for  you  that  will  make 
you  gray-headed." 

"Hardly  that,"  returned  Neale,  laughing. 

"Do  you  remember  the  survey  we  made  out  here  in 
the  hills  for  Number  Ten  Bridge?  M*de  over  two  years 
ago." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it." 

"Well,  the  rails  are  within  twenty  miles  of  Number  Ten. 
They'll  be  there  presently — and  no  piers  to  cross  on." 

"How's  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  report  came  in  only  last  night. 
It's  a  queer  document.  Here  it  is.  Study  it  at  your 
leisure.  ...  It  seems  a  big  force  of  men  have  been 
working  there  for  months.  Piers  have  b*en  put  in — only 
to  sink." 

"Sink!"  ejaculated  Neale.  "Whew!  That's  a  stumper! 
.  .  .  Chief,  the  survey  is  mine.  I'll  ne^r  forget  how  I 
worked  on  it." 

"Could  you  have  made  a  mistake?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Neale,  readily.  "But  I'd  never 
believe  that  unless  I  saw  it.  A  tough  ,*ob  it  was — but 
just  the  kind  of  work  I  eat  up." 

270 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Well,  you  can  go  out  and  eat  it  up  some  more." 

"That  means  I'll  have  to  camp  out  there.  I  can't  get 
back  to  Benton." 

"No,  you  can't.  And  isn't  that  just  as  well?'*  queried 
the  chief,  with  his  keen,  dark  glance  on  Neale.  "Son,  I've 
heard  your  name  coupled  with  gamblers — and  that  Stanton 
"voman." 

"No  doubt.  I  know  them.  I've  been — seeking  some 
trace  of— Allie." 

"You  still  hope  to  find  her?  You  still  imagine  some 
of  this  riffraff  Benton  gang  made  off  with  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Son,  it's  scarcely  possible,"  said  Lodge,  earnestly. 
"Anderson  claims  the  Sioux  got  her.  We  all  incline 
to  that.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  hard,  Neale.  .  .  .  Love  and  life 
are  only  atoms  under  the  iron  heel  of  the  U.  P.  R.  .  .  . 
It's  too  late  now.  You  can't  forget — no — but  you  must 
not  risk  your  life — your  opportunities — your  reputation." 

Neale  turned  away  his  face  for  a  moment  and  was  silent. 
An  engine  whistled;  a  bell  began  to  ring ;  some  train  official 
called  to  General  Lodge.  The  chief  held  up  his  hand  for  a 
little  more  delay. 

"I'm  off,"  he  said,  rapidly.  "Neale,  you'll  go  out  to 
Number  Ten  and  take  charge." 

That  surprised  and  thrilled  Neale  into  eagerness. 

"Who  are  the  engineers?" 

"Blake  and  Coffee.  I  don't  know  them.  Henney 
sent  them  out  from  Omaha.  They're  well  recommended. 
But  that's  no  matter.  Something  is  wrong.  You're  to 
have  full  charge  of  engineers,  bosses,  masons.  In  fact, 
I've  sent  word  out  to  that  effect." 

"Who's  the  contractor?"  asked  Neale. 

"I  don't  know.  But  whoever  he  is  he  has  made  a  pile 
of  money  out  of  this  job.  And  the  job's  not  done.  That's 
what  galls  me." 

"Well,  chief,  it  will  be  done,"  said  Neale,  sharp  with 
determination. 

271 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Good!  Neale,  I'll  start  east  with  another  load  off  my 
shoulders.  .  .  .  And,  son,  if  you  throw  up  a  bridge  so 
there'll  be  no  delay,  something  temporary  for  the  rails 
and  the  work-train,  and  then  plan  piers  right  for  Number 
Ten— well— you'll  hear  from  it,  that's  all." 

They  shook  hands. 

"I  may  be  gone  a  week  or  a  month — I  can't  tell,"  went 
on  the  chief.  "But  when  I  do  come  I'll  probably  have  a 
train-load  of  directors,  commissioners,  stockholders." 

"Bring  them  on,"  said  Neale.  "Maybe  if  they  saw 
more  of  what  we're  up  against  they  wouldn't  holler  so." 

"Right.  .  .  .  Remember,  you've  full  charge  and  that 
I  trust  you  implicitly.  Good-by  and  good  lucki" 

The  chief  boarded  his  train  as  it  began  to  move.  Neale 
watched  it  leave  the  station,  and  with  a  swelling  heart 
he  realized  that  he  had  been  placed  high,  that  his  premoni 
tion  of  advancement  had  not  been  without  warrant. 

The  work-train  was  backing  into  the  station  and  would 
depart  westward  in  short  order.  Neale  hurried  to  his 
lodgings  to  pack  his  few  belongings.  Larry  was  lying  on 
his  cot,  fully  dressed  and  asleep.  Neale  shook  him. 

"Wake  up,  you  lazy  son-of-a-gun !"  shouted  Neale. 

Larry  opened  his  eyes.  "Wai,  what's  wrong?  Is  it  last 
night  or  to-morrow?" 

"  Larry,  I'm  off.    Got  charge  of  a  big  job." 

"Is  thet  all?"  drawled  Larry,  sleepily.  "Why,  shore  I 
always  knowed  you'd  be  chief  engineer  some  day." 

"Pard— -sit  up,"  said  Neale,  unsteadily.  "Will  you  stay 
sober — and  watch — and  listen  for  some  news  of  Allie?/.  .  . 
Till  I  come  back  to  Benton?" 

"Neale,  air  you  still  dreamin'?"  asked  Larry,  incredu 
lously. 

"Will  you  do  that  much  for  me?" 

"Shore." 

"Thank  you,  old  friend.  Good-by  now.  I've  got  to 
rustle." 

He  left  Larry  sitting  on  his  cot,  staring  at  nothing. 

272 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

On  the  way  to  the  station  Neale  encountered  the  gambler. 
Place  Hough,  who,  despite  his  nocturnal  habits,  was  an 
early  riser.  In  the  excitement  of  the  hour  Neale  gave 
way  to  an  impulse.  Briefly  he  told  Hough  about  Allie — 
her  disappearance  and  probable  hidden  presence  in  Benton, 
and  he  asked  the  gambler  to  keep  his  eyes  and  ears  open. 
Hough  seemed  both  surprised  and  pleased  with  the  con 
fidence,  and  he  said  he  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  help 
Neale. 

Neale  had  to  run  to  catch  the  train.  A  brawny  Irish 
man  extended  a  red-sleeved  arm  to  help  him  up. 

"Upwidyez.    Thorl" 

Neale  found  himself  with  bag  and  rifle  and  blanket 
sprawling  on  the  gravel-covered  floor  of  a  flat-car.  Casey, 
the  old  lineman,  grinned  at  him  over  the  familiar  short, 
black  pipe. 

"B'gorra,  it's  me  ould  fri'nd  Neale!" 

"It  sure  is.    How're  you,  Casey?" 

"Pritty  good  fur  an  ould  soldier.  .  .  .  An'  it's  news  I 
hear  of  yez,  me  boy." 

"What  news?" 

"Shure  yez  hed  a  boost.  Gineral  Lodge  hisself  wor 
tellin'  Grady,  the  boss,  that  yez  had  been  given  charge  of 
Number  Ten." 

"Yes,  that's  correct." 

"I'm  dom'  glad  to  hear  ut,"  declared  the  Irishman. 
"But  yez  hev  a  hell  of  a  job  in  thot  Number  Ten." 

' '  So  I've  been  told.    What  do  you  know  about  it,  Casey  ?" 

"Shure  ut  ain't  much.  A  fri'nd  of  mine  was  muxin* 
mortor  over  there.  An'  he  sez  whin  the  crick  was  dry  ut 
hed  a  bottom,  but  whin  wet  ut  shure  hed  none." 

"Then  I  have  got  a  job  on  my  hands,"  replied  Neale, 
grimly. 

Those  days  it  took  the  work-train  several  hours  to 
reach  the  end  of  the  rails.  Neale  rode  by  some  places 
with  a  profound  satisfaction  in  the  certainty  that  but 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

for  him  the  track  would  not  yet  have  been  spiked  there. 
Construction  was  climbing  fast  into  the  hills.  He  won 
dered  when  and  where  would  be  the  long-looked-f or  meet 
ing  of  the  rails  connecting  East  with  West.  Word  had 
drifted  over  the  mountains  that  the  Pacific  division  of 
the  construction  was  already  in  Utah. 

At  the  camp  Colonel  Dillon  offered  Neale  an  escort  of 
troopers  out  to  Number  Ten,  but  Neale  decided  he  could 
make  better  time  alone.  There  had  been  no  late  sign  of 
the  Indians  in  that  locality  and  he  knew  both  the  road  and 
the  trail. 

Early  next  morning,  mounted  on  a  fast  horse,  he  set 
out.  It  was  a  melancholy  ride.  Several  times  he  had 
been  over  that  ground,  once  traveling  west  with  Larry, 
full  of  ardor  and  joy  at  the  prospect  of  soon  seeing  Allie 
Lee,  and  again  on  the  return,  in  despair  at  the  loss  of 
her. 

He  rode  the  twenty  miles  in  three  hours.  The  camp  of 
dirty  tents  was  clustered  in  a  hot  valley  surrounded  by  hills 
sparsely  fringed  with  trees.  Neale  noted  the  timber  as  a 
lucky  augury  to  his  enterprise.  It  was  an  idle  camp  full  of ' 
lolling  laborers. 

As  Neale  dismounted  a  Mexican  came  forward. 

"Look  after  the  horse,"  said  Neale,  and,  taking  his 
luggage,  he  made  for  a  big  tent  with  a  fly  extended  in 
front.  Several  men  sat  on  camp-chairs  round  a  table. 
One  of  them  got  up  and  stepped  out. 

"Where's  Blake  and  Coffee?"  inquired  Neale. 

"I'm  Blake,"  was  the  reply,  "and  there's  Coffee.  Arej 
you  Mr.  Neale?" 

"Yes." 

"Coffee,  here's  our  new  boss,"  called  Blake  as  he  took 
part  of  Neale's  baggage. 

Coffee  appeared  to  be  a  sunburnt,  middle-aged  man, 
rather  bluff  and  hearty  in  his  greeting.  The  younger  en 
gineer,  Blake,  was  a  tanned,  thin-faced  individual,  with  a 
shifty  gaze  and  constrained  manner.  The  third  fellow 

274 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

they  introduced  as  a  lineman  named  Somers.  Neale  had 
not  anticipated  a  cordial  reception  and  felt  disposed  to  be 
generous. 

"Have  you  got  quarters  for  me  here?"  he  inquired. 

"Sure.    There's  lots  of  room  and  a  cot,"  replied  Coffee. 

They  carried  Neale's  effects  inside  the  tent.  It  was 
large  and  spare,  containing  table  and  lamp,  boxes  for 
seats,  several  cots,  and  bags. 

"  It's  hot.  Got  any  drinking- water ?"  asked  Neale,  taking 
off  his  coat.  Next  he  opened  his  bag  to  take  things  out, 
then  drank  thirstily  of  the  water  offered  him.  He  did 
not  care  much  for  this  part  of  his  new  task.  These  en 
gineers  might  be  sincere  and  competent,  but  he  had  been 
sent  on  to  judge  their  work,  and  the  situation  was  not 
pleasant.  Neale  had  observed  many  engineers  come  and 
go  during  his  experience  on  the  road;  and  that  fact,  to 
gether  with  the  authority  given  him  and  his  loyalty  to 
tke  chief,  gave  him  cause  for  worry.  He  hoped,  and  he 
was  ready  to  believe,  that  these  engineers  had  done  their 
best  on  an  extremely  knotty  problem. 

"We  got  Lodge's  telegram  last  night,"  said  Coffee. 
"Kinda  sudden.  It  jarred  us." 

"No  doubt.    I'm  sorry.    What  was  the  message?" 

"Lodge  never  wastes  words,"  replied  the  engineer, 
shortly.  But  he  did  not  vouchsafe  the  information  for 
which  Neale  had  asked. 

Neale  threw  his  note-book  upon  the  dusty  table  and, 
sitting  down  on  a  box,  he  looked  up  at  the  men.  Both 
engineers  were  studying  him  intently,  almost  eagerly,  Neale 
imagined. 

"Number  Ten's  a  tough  nut  to  crack,  eh?"  he  in 
quired. 

"We've  been  nere  three  months,"  replied  Blake. 

"Wait  till  you  see  that  quicksand  hole,"  added  Coffee. 

"Quicksand!  It  was  a  dry,  solid  stream-bed  when  I 
ran  the  line  through  here  and  drew  the  plans  for  Number 
Ten,"  declared  Neale. 

275 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Coffee  and  Blake  stared  blankly  at  him.  So  did  the 
lineman  Somers. 

"You?  Did  you  draw  the  plans  we — we've  been  work 
ing  on?"  asked  Coffee. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  answered  Neale,  slowly.  It  struck  him 
that  Blake  had  paled  slightly.  Neale  sustained  a  slight 
shock  of  surprise  and  antagonism.  He  bent  over  his 
note-book,  opening  it  to  a  clean  page.  Fighting  his  first 
impressions,  he  decided  they  had  arisen  from  the  manifest 
dismay  of  the  engineers  and  their  consciousness  of  a 
blunder. 

"  Let's  get  down  to  notes,"  Neale  went  on,  taking  up  his 
pencil.  "You've  been  here  three  months?" 

"Yes." 

"With  what  force?" 

"Two  hundred  men  on  and  off." 

"Who's  the  gang  boss?" 

"Colohan.  He's  had  some  of  the  biggest  contracts 
along  the  line." 

Neale  was  about  to  inquire  the  name  of  the  contractor, 
but  he  refrained,  governed  by  one  of  his  peculiar  impulses. 

"Anybody  working  when  you  got  here?"  he  went  on. 

"Yes.    Masons  had  been  cutting  stone  for  six  weeks." 

"What's  been  done?" 

Coffee  laughed  harshly.  "We  got  the  three  piers  in — 
good  and  solid  on  dry  bottom.  Then  along  comes  the 
rain  —  and  our  work  melts  into  the  quicksand.  Since 
then  we've  been  trying  to  do  it  over." 

"But  why  did  this  happen  in  the  first  place?" 

Coffee  spread  wide  his  arms.  "Ask  me  something 
easy.  Why  was  the  bottom  dry  and  solid?  Why  did  it 
rain?  Why  did  solid  earth  turn  into  quicksand?" 

Neale  slapped  the  note-book  shut  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
"Gentlemen,  that  is  not  the  talk  of  engineers,"  he  said, 
deliberately. 

" The  hell  you  say!  What  is  it,  then?"  burst  out  Coffee, 
bis  face  flushing  redder. 

276 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"  I'll  inform  you  later,"  replied  Neale,  turning  to  the  line 
man.  "Somers,  tell  this  gang  boss,  Colohan,  I  want  him." 

Then  Neale  left  the  tent.  He  had  started  to  walk  away 
when  he  heard  Blake  speak  in  a  fierce  undertone. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?    We're  up  against  it!" 

And  Coffee  growled  a  reply  Neale  could  not  understand. 
But  the  tone  of  it  was  conclusive.  These  men  had  made 
a  serious  blunder  and  were  blaming  each  other,  hating  each 
other  for  it.  Neale  was  conscious  of  anger.  This  section 
of  line  came  under  his  survey,  and  he  had  been  proud  to 
be  given  such  important  and  difficult  work.  Incompetent 
or  careless  engineers  had  bungled  Number  Ten.  Neale 
strode  on  among  the  idle  and  sleeping  laborers,  between  the 
tents,  and  then  past  the  blacksmith's  shop  and  the  feed 
corrals  down  to  the  river. 

A  shallow  stream  of  muddy  water  came  murmuring 
down  from  the  hills.  It  covered  the  wide  bed  that  Neale 
remembered  had  been  a  dry,  sand-and-gravel  waste.  On 
each  side  the  abutment  piers  had  been  undermined 
and  washed  out.  Not  a  stone  remained  in  sight.  The 
banks  w^re  hollowed  inward  and  shafts  of  heavy  boards 
were  sliding  down.  In  the  middle  of  the  stream  stood  a 
coffer-dam  i:i  course  of  building,  and  near  it  another  that 
had  collapsed.  These  frameworks  almost  hid  the  tip  of 
the  middle  pier,  which  had  evidently  slid  over  and  was 
sinking  on  its  side.  There  was  no  telling  what  had  been 
sunk  in  that  hole.  All  the  surroundings — the  tons  of 
stone,  cut  and  uncut,  the  piles  of  muddy  lumber,  the  plat 
forms  and  rafts,  the  crevices  in  the  worn  shores  up  and 
down  both  sides — all  attested  to  the  long  weeks  of  fruitless 
labor  and  to  the  engulfing  mystery  of  that  shallow,  mur 
muring  stream. 

Neale  returned  thoughtfully  to  camp.  Blake  and 
Coffee  were  sitting  under  the  fly  in  company  with  a  stal 
wart  Irishman. 

"Fine  sink-hole  you  picked  out  for  Number  Ten,  don't 
you  think?"  queried  Blake. 

277 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Neale  eyed  his  interrogator  with  somewhat  of  a  pene 
trating  glance.  Blake  did  not  meet  that  gaze  frankly. 

"Yes,  it's  a  sink-hole,  all  right,  and  no  mistake,"  re 
plied  Neale.  "It's  just  what  I  calculated  when  I  ran  the 
plans.  .  .  .  Did  you  follow  those  plans?" 

Blake  appeared  about  to  reply  when  Coffee  cut  him 
short.  "Certainly  we  did,"  he  snapped. 

"Then  where  are  the  breakwaters?"  asked  Neale, 
sharply. 

"Breakwaters?"  ejaculated  Coffee.  His  surprise  was 
sincere. 

"Yes,  breakwaters,"  retorted  Neale.  "I  drew  plans 
for  breakwaters  to  be  built  up-stream  so  that  in  high 
water  the  rapid  current  would  be  directed  equally  between 
the  piers,  and  not  against  them." 

"Oh  yes!  Why — we  must  have  got — it  mixed,"  replied 
Coffee.  "Thought  they  were  to  be  built  last.  Wasn't  that 
it,  Blake?" 

"Sure,"  replied  his  colleague,  but  his  tone  lacked  some 
thing. 

"Ah— I  see,"  said  Neale,  slowly. 

Then  the  big  Irishman  got  up  to  extend  a  huge  hand. 
"I'm  ColoLan,"  he  boomed. 

Neale  liked  the  bronzed,  rough  face,  good-natured  and 
intelligent.  And  he  was  aware  of  a  shrewd  pair  of  gray 
eyes  taking  his  measure.  Why  these  men  seemed  to  want 
to  look  through  Neale  might  have  been  natural  enough, 
but  somehow  it  struck  him  strangely.  He  had  come  there 
to  help  them,  not  to  discharge  them.  Colohan,  however, 
did  not  rouse  Neale's  antagonism  as  the  others  had  done, 

"Colohan,  are  you  sick  of  this  job?"  queried  Neale, 
after  greeting  the  boss. 

"Yes — an'  no,"  replied  Colohan. 

"You  want  to  quit,  then?"  went  on  Neale,  bluntly. 

The  Irishman  evidently  took  this  curt  query  as  a  fore 
word  of  the  coming  dismissal.  He  looked  sham^l-  crest 
fallen,  at  a  loss  to  reply. 

278 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  continued  Neale.  "I'm 
not  going  to  fire  you.  But  if  you  are  sick  of  the  job  you 
can  quit.  I'll  boss  the  gang  myself.  .  .  .  The  rails  will 
be  here  in  ten  days,  and  I'm  going  to  have  a  trestle  over 
that  hole  so  the  rails  can  cross.  No  holding  up  the  work 
at  this  stage  of  the  game.  .  .  .  There's  near  five  thousand 
vnen  in  the  gangs  back  along  the  line — coming  fast.  They've 
all  got  just  one  idea — success.  The  U.  P.  R.  is  going 
through.  Soon  out  here  the  rails  will  meet.  .  .  .  Colohan, 
make  it  a  matter  of  your  preference.  Will  you  stick?" 

"  You  bet !"  he  replied,  heartily.  A  ruddy  glow  emanated 
from  his  face.  Neale  was  quick  to  sense  that  this  Irish 
man,  like  Casey,  had  an  honest  love  for  the  railroad,  what 
ever  he  might  feel  for  the  labor. 

"Get  on  the  job,  then,"  ordered  Neale,  cheerily.  "We'll 
hustle  while  there's  daylight.  We'll  have  that  trestle 
ready  when  the  rails  get  here." 

Coffee  laughed  scornfully.  "Neale,  that  sounds  fine, 
but  it's  impossible  until  the  trains  get  here  with  piles 
and  timbers,  iron,  and  other  stuff.  We  meant  to  run 
up  a  trestle  then." 

"I  dare  say,"  replied  Neale.  "But  the  U.  P.  R.  did 
not  start  that  way,  and  never  would  finish  that  way." 

"Well,  you'll  have  your  troubles,"  declared  Coffee. 

"Troubles!  .  .  .  Do  you  imagine  I'm  going  to  think 
of  my  self  T1  retorted  Neale.  These  fellows  were  be 
ginning  to  get  on  his  nerves.  Coffee  grew  sullen, 
Blake  shifted  uneasily  from  foot  to  foot,  Colohan  beamed 
upon  Neale. 

"Come  on  with  them  orders,"  he  said. 

"Right!  .  .  .  Send  men  up  on  the  hills  to  cut  and 
trim  trees  for  piles  and  beams.  .  .  .  Find  a  way  or  make 
one  for  horses  to  snake  down  these  timbers.  Haul  that 
pile-driver  down  to  the  river  and  set  it  up.  .  .  .  Have 
the  engineer  start  up  steam  and  try  out.  .  .  .  Look  the 
blacksmith  shop  over  to  see  if  there's  iron  enough.  If  not, 
telegraph  Benton  for  more — for  whatever  you  want — and 

279 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

send  wagons  back  to  the  end  of  the  rails.  .  .  .  That's  all 
for  this  time,  Colohan." 

"  All  right,  chief,"  replied  the  boss,  and  he  saluted.  Then 
he  turned  sneeringly  to  Blake  and  Coffee.  "Did  you  hear 
them  orders ?  I'm  not  takin'  none  from  you  again.  They're 
from  the  chief." 

Colohan 's  manner  or  tone  or  the  word  chief  amazed 
Coffee.  He  looked  nasty. 

"Go  on  and  work,  then,  you  big  Irish  Paddy,"  he  said, 
violently.  "Your  chief -blarney  doesn't  fool  us.  You're 
only  working  to  get  on  the  right  side  of  your  new  boss.  .  .  . 
Let  me  tell  you — you're  in  this  Number  Ten  deal  as  deep — 
as  deep  as  we  are." 

It  had  developed  that  there  was  hatred  between  these 
men.  Colohan's  face  turned  fiery  red,  and,  looming  over 
Coffee,  he  looked  the  quick-tempered  and  dangerous  nature 
of  his  class. 

"Coffee,  I'm  sayin'  this  to  your  face  right  now.  I  ain't 
deep  in  this  Number  Ten  deal.  ...  I  obeyed  orders — an' 
damn  strange  ones,  some  of  them." 

Neale  intervened  and  perhaps  prevented  a  clash.  "  Don't 
quarrel,  men.  Sure  there's  bound  to  be  a  little  friction 
for  a  day  or  so.  But  we'll  soon  get  to  working." 

Colohan  strode  away  without  another  word.  His  brawny 
shoulders  were  expressive  of  a  doubt. 

"Get  me  my  plans  for  Number  Ten  construction,"  said 
Neale,  pleasantly,  for  he  meant  to  do  his  share  at  making 
the  best  of  it. 

Blake  brought  the  plans  and  spread  them  out  on  tha 
table. 

<cWill  you  both  go  over  them  with  me?"  inquired  Neale. 

"What's  the  use?"  returned  Coffee,  disgustedly.  "Neale, 
you're  thick-headed." 

1 '  Yes,  I  guess  so, ' '  rejoined  Neale,  constrainedly.  ' '  That's 
why  General  Lodge  sent  me  up  here — over  your  clear 
heads." 

No  retort  was  forthcoming  from  the  two  disgruntled 

280 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

engineers.  Neale  went  into  the  tent  and  drew  a  seat  up 
to  the  table.  He  wanted  to  be  alone — to  study  his  plans — 
to  think  about  the  whole  matter.  He  found  his  old  figures 
and  drawings  as  absorbing  as  a  good  story;  still,  there 
came  breaks  in  his  attention.  Blake  walked  into  the  tent 
several  times,  as  if  to  speak,  and  each  time  he  retired 
silently.  Again,  some  messenger  brought  a  telegram  to 
one  of  the  engineers  outside,  and  it  must  have  caused  the 
whispered  colloquy  that  followed.  Finally  they  went 
away,  and  Neale,  getting  to  work  in  earnest,  was  not  dis 
turbed  until  called  for  supper. 

Neale  ate  at  a  mess-table  with  the  laborers,  and  enjoyed 
his  meal.  The  Paddies  always  took  to  him.  One  thing  he 
gathered  early  was  the  fact  that  Number  Ten  bridge  was 
a  joke  with  the  men.  This  sobered  Neale  and  he  left  the 
cheery,  bantering  company  for  a  quiet  walk  alone. 

It  was  twilight  down  in  the  valley,  while  still  daylight 
up  on  the  hilltops.  A  faint  glow  remained  from  the  sun 
set,  but  it  faded  as  Neale  looked.  He  walked  a  goodly 
distance  from  camp,  so  as  to  be  out  of  earshot.  The  cool 
night  air  was  pleasant  after  the  hot  day.  It  fanned  his 
face.  And  the  silence,  the  darkness,  the  stars  calmed 
him.  A  lonely  wolf  mourned  from  the  heights,  and  the 
long  wail  brought  to  mind  Slingerland's  cabin.  Then  it 
was  only  a  quick  step  to  memory  of  Allie  Lee;  and  Neale 
drifted  from  the  perplexities  and  problems  of  his  new  re 
sponsibility  to  haunting  memories,  hopes,  doubts,  fears. 

When  he  returned  to  the  tent  he  espied  a  folded  paper 
on  the  table  in  the  yellow  lamplight.  It  was  a  telegram 
addressed  to  him.  It  said  that  back  salaries  and  retention 
of  engineers  were  at  his  discretion,  and  was  signed  Lodge. 
This  message  nonplussed  Neale.  The  chief  must  mean  that 
Blake  and  Coffee  would  not  be  paid  for  past  work  nor  kept 
for  future  work  unless  Neale  decided  otherwise.  While  he 
was  puzzling  over  this  message  the  engineers  came  in. 

"Say,  what  do  you  make  of  this?"  demanded  Neale, 
and  he  shoved  the  telegram  across  the  table  toward  them- 

19  281 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

Both  men  read  it.  Coffee  threw  his  coat  over  on  his 
cot  and  then  lit  his  pipe. 

"What  I  make  of  that  is — I  lose  three  months'  back 
pay  .  .  .  nine  hundred  dollars,"  he  replied,  puffing  a  cloud 
of  smoke. 

"And  I  lose  six  hundred,"  supplemented  Blake. 

Neale  leaned  back  and  gazed  up  at  his  subordinates. 
He  ielt  a  subtle  change  in  them.  They  had  arrived  at 
some  momentous  decision. 

"But  this  message  reads  at  my  discretion,"  said  Neale. 
"It's  a  plain  surprise  to  me.  I've  no  intention  of  making 
you  lose  your  back  pay,  or  of  firing  you,  either." 

"You'll  probably  do  both — unless  we  can  get  together," 
asserted  Coffee. 

"Well,  can't  we  get  together?" 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,"  was  the  enigmatic  reply. 

"I'll  need  you  both,"  went  on  Neale,  thoughtfully. 
"We've  a  big  job.  We've  got  to  put  a  force  of  men  on  the 
piers  while  we're  building  the  trestle.  .  .  .  Maybe  I"l 
fall  down  myself.  Heavens!  I've  made  blunders  myself. 
I  can't  condemn  you  fellows.  I'm  willing  to  call  off  all 
talk  about  past  performances  and  begin  over  again." 

Neale  felt  that  this  proposition  should  have  put  another 
light  on  the  question,  that  it  should  have  been  received 
appreciatively  if  not  enthusiastically.  But  he  was  some 
what  taken  back  by  the  fact  that  it  was  not. 

"Ahem!  Well,  we  can  talk  it  over  to-morrow,"  yawned 
Coffee. 

Neale  made  no  more  overtures,  busied  himself  with  his 
notes  for  an  hour,  and  then  sought  his  cot. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Neale  went  down  to 
the  river  to  make  his  close  inspection  of  what  had  been 
done  toward  building  Number  Ten.  From  Colohan  he 
ascertained  the  number  of  shafts  and  coffer-dams  sunk; 
from  the  masons  he  learned  the  amount  of  stone  cut  fee 
patterns.  And  he  was  not  only  amazed  and  astounded 

282 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

but  overwhelmed,  and  incensed  beyond  expression.  The 
labor  had  been  prodigious.  Hundreds  of  tons  of  material 
had  been  sunk  there;  and  that  meant  that  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars  also  had  been  sunk. 

Upon  investigation  Neale  found  that,  although  many 
cribbings  had  been  sunk  for  the  piers,  they  had  never 
been  put  deep  enough.  And  there  were  coffer-dams  that 
did  not  dam  at  all — useless,  senseless  wastes  of  time  and 
material,  not  to  say  wages.  His  plans  called  for  fifty 
thirty-foot  piles  driven  to  bedrock,  which,  according  to 
the  excavations  he  had  had  made  at  the  time  of  survey,  was 
forty  feet  below  the  surface.  Not  a  pile  had  been  driven! 
There  had  been  no  solid  base  for  any  of  the  cribbings !  No 
, foundations  for  the  piers! 

At  the  discovery  the  blood  burned  hot  in  Neale's  face 
and  neck. 

"No  blunder!  No  incompetence!  No  misreading  of 
my  plans!  But  a  rotten,  deliberate  deal!  .  .  .  Work 
done  over  and  over  again!  Oh,  I  see  it  all  now!  General 
Lodge  knew  it  without  ever  coming  here.  The  same  old 
story!  That  black  stain — that  dishonor  on  the  great 
work!  .  .  .  Graft!  Graft!" 

He  clambered  out  of  the  wet  and  muddy  hole  and  up  the 
bank.  Then  he  saw  Blake  sauntering  across  the  flat  toward 
him.  NeaJe  sat  down  abruptly  to  hide  his  face  and  fury, 
giving  himself  the  task  of  scraping  mud  from  his  boots. 
When  Blake  got  there  Neale  had  himself  fairly  well  in 
hand. 

"Hello,  Neale!"  said  Blake,  suavely.  "Collected  some 
mud,  I  see.  It's  sure  a  dirty  job." 

"Yes,  it's  been  dirty  in  more  ways  than  mud,  I  guess," 
replied  Neale.  The  instant  his  voice  sounded  in  his  ears  it 
unleashed  his  temper. 

"Sure  has  been  a  pile  of  money — dirty  government 
money — sunk  in  there,"  rejoined  Blake.  He  spoke  with 
assurance  that  surprised  Neale  into  a  desire  to  see  how  far 
he  would  go. 

283 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Blake,  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good.*' 

A  moment  of  silence  passed  before  Blake  spoke  again. 
"Sure.  And  it  '11  blow  you  good,  too,"  he  said,  breathing 
hard. 

"Every  man  has  his  price/'  replied  Neale,  lightly. 

Then  he  felt  a  big,  soft  roll  of  bills  stuffed  into  his  hand. 
He  took  it,  trembling  all  over.  He  wanted  to  spring  erect, 
to  fling  that  bribe  in  its  giver's  face.  But  he  could  control 
himself  a  moment  longer. 

"Blake,  who's  the  contractor  on  this  job?"  he  queried, 
rapidly. 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"I  don't." 

"Well,  we  supposed  you  knew.    It's  Lee." 

Neale  started  as  if  he  had  received  a  stab;  the  name 
hurt  him  in  one  way  and  was  a  shock  in  another. 

"Allison  Lee — the  commissioner?"  he  asked,  thickly. 

"Sure.  Oh,  we're  in  right,  Neale,"  replied  Blake,  with 
a  laugh  of  relief. 

Swift  as  an  Indian,  and  as  savagely,  Neale  sprang  up. 
He  threw  the  roll  of  bills  into  Blake's  face. 

"You  try  to  bribe  me!  Me!"  burst  out  Neale,  pas 
sionately.  "You  think  I'll  take  your  dirty  money — cover 
up  your  crooked  job!  Why,  you  sneak!  You  thief!  You 
dog!" 

He  knocked  Blake  down.  "Hold — on — Neale!"  gasped 
Blake.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  half  stunned. 

"Pick  up  that  money,"  ordered  Neale,  and  he  threat 
ened  Blake  again.  "Hurry!  .  .  .  Now  march  for  camp!" 

Neale  walked  the  young  engineer  into  the  presence  of 
his  superior.  Coffee  sat  at  his  table  under  the  fly,  with 
Somers  and  another  man.  Colohan  appeared  on  the 
moment,  and  there  were  excited  comments  from  others 
near  by.  Coffee  stood  up.  His  face  turned  yellow.  His 
lips  snarled. 

"Coffee,  here's  your  side  partner,"  called  Neale,  and 
his  voice  was  biting.  "I've  got  you  both  dead  to  right* 

284 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

you  liars!  .  .  .  You  never  even  tried  to  work  on  my  plans 
for  Number  Ten." 

"Neale,  what  in  the  hell  do  you  suppose  we're  out  here 
for?"  demanded  Coffee,  harshly.  "They're  all  getting  a 
slice  of  this  money.  There's  barrels  of  it.  The  directors  of 
the  road  are  crooked.  They  play  both  ends  against  the 
middle.  They  borrow  money  from  the  government  and 
then  pay  it  out  to  themselves.  You're  one  of  these  dreamers. 
You're  Lodge's  pet.  But  you  can't  scare  me." 

"Coffee,  if  there  was  any  law  out  here  for  stealing  you'd 
go  to  jail,"  declared  Neale.  "You're  a  thief,  same  as  this 
pup  who  tried  to  bribe  me.  You're  worse.  You've  held 
up  the  line.  You've  ordered  your  rotten  work  done  over 
and  over  again.  This  is  treachery  to  General  Lodge — to 
Henney,  who  sent  you  out  here.  And  to  me  it's — it's — 
there's  no  name  low  enough.  I  surveyed  the  line  through 
here.  I  drew  the  plans  for  Number  Ten.  And  I'm  going 
to  prove  you  both  cheats.  You  and  your  contractor." 

"Neale,  there's  more  than  us  in  the  deal,"  said  Coffee, 
sullenly. 

Colohan  strode  close,  big  and  formidable.  "  If  you  mean 
me,  you're  a  liar,"  he  declared.  "An'  don't  say  it!" 
Coffee  was  plainly  intimidated,  and  Colohan  turned  to 
Neale.  "Boss,  I  swear  I  wasn't  in  on  this  deal.  Lately 
I  guessed  it  was  all  wrong.  But  all  I  could  do  was  obey 
orders." 

"Neale,  you  can't  prove  anything,"  sneered  Coffee. 
"If  you  have  any  sense  you'll  shut  up.  I  tell  you  this  is 
only  a  little  deal.  I'm  on  the  inside.  I  know  financiers, 
commissioners,  Congressmen,  and  Senators — and  I  told 
you  before  the  directors  are  all  in  on  this  U.  P.  R.  pickings. 
You're  a  fool!" 

"Maybe.     But  I'm  no  thief,"  retorted  Neale. 

"Shut  up,  will  you?"  shouted  Coffee,  who  plainly  did 
not  take  kindly  to  that  epithet  before  the  gathering  crowd. 
"  I'm  no  thief.  .  .  .  Men  get  shot  out  here  for  saying  less 
than  that." 

281: 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

Neale  laughed.  He  read  Coffee's  mind.  That  worthy, 
responding  to  the  wildness  of  the  time  and  place,  meant 
to  cover  his  tracks  one  way  or  another.  And  Neale  had 
not  lived  long  with  Larry  Red  King  for  nothing. 

"Coffee,  you  are  a  thief,"  declared  Neale,  striding  for 
ward.  "The  worst  kind.  Because  you  stole  without  risk. 
You  can't  be  punished.  But  I'll  carry  this  deal  higher 
than  you."  And  quick  as  a  flash  Neale  snatched  some 
telegrams  from  Coffee's  vest  pocket.  The  act  infuriated 
Coffee.  His  face  went  purple. 

"Hand  'em  back!"  he  yelled,  his  arm  swinging  back  to 
his  hip. 

"I'll  bet  there's  a  telegram  here  from  Lee,  and  I'm 
entitled  to  keep  it,"  responded  Neale,  coolly  and  slowly. 

Then  as  Coffee  furiously  jammed  his  hand  back  for  his 
gun  Neale  struck  him.  Coffee  fell  with  the  overturned  table 
out  in  the  sand.  His  gun  dropped  as  he  dropped.  Neale 
was  there  light  and  quick.  He  snatched  up  the  gun. 

"Coffee,  you  and  Blake  are  to  understand  you're  fired," 
said  Neale.  "Fired  off  the  job  and  out  of  camp,  just  as 
you  are." 

Fifteen  days  later  the  work-train  crossed  Number  Ten 
on  a  trestle  and  the  construction  progressed  with  new 
impetus. 

Not  many  days  later  a  train  of  different  character  crept 
slowly  foot  by  foot  over  that  temporary  bridge.  It  carried 
passenger-coaches,  a  private  car  containing  the  directors 
of  the  railroad,  and  General  Lodge's  special  car.  The  en 
gine  was  decorated  with  flags  and  the  engineer  whistled  a 
piercing  blast  as  he  rolled  out  upon  the  structure.  Number 
Ten  had  been  the  last  big  obstacle. 

As  fortune  would  have  it,  Neale  happened  on  the  moment 
to  be  standing  in  a  significant  and  thrilling  position,  for 
himself  and  for  all  who  saw  him.  And  that  happened 
to  be  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  opposite  the  trestle  on 
the  masonry  of  the  middle  pier,  now  two  feet  above  tht 

286 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

coffer-dam.  He  was  as  wet  and  muddy  as  the  laborer? 
with  him. 

Engineer,  fireman,  brakemen,  and  passengers  cheered 
him.  For  Neale  the  moment  was  unexpected  and  simply 
heart-swelling.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  felt  so  proud. 
And  yet,  stinging  among  these  sudden  sweet  emotions 
was  a  nameless  pang. 

Presently  Neele  espied  General  Lodge  leaning  out  of 
a  window  of  his  car.  He  was  waving.  Neale  pointed  down 
at  his  feet,  at  the  solid  masonry;  and  then,  circling  his 
mouth  with  his  hands,  he  yelled  with  all  his  might : 

"Bed-rock!" 

His  chief  yelled  back.  "You're  a  soldier!" 

That  perhaps  in  the  excitement  and  joy  of  the  moment 
was  the  greatest  praise  the  army  officer  could  render. 
Nothing  could  have  pleased  Neale  more. 

The  train  passed  over  the  trestle  and  on  out  of  sight. 
Upon  its  return,  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  it 
stopped  in  camp.  A  messenger  came  with  word  for  Neale 
to  report  at  once  to  the  directors.  He  hurried  to  his  tent 
to  secure  his  papers,  and  then,  wet  and  muddy,  he  entered 
the  private  car  of  the  directors. 

It  contained  only  four  men — General  Lodge,  and  War- 
burton,  Rogers,  and  Rudd.  All  except  the  tall,  white- 
haired  Warburton  were  comfortable  in  shirt-sleeves, 
smoking  with  a  table  between  them.  The  instant  Neale 
entered  their  presence  he  divined  that  he  faced  a  big  mo 
ment  in  his  life. 

The  chief's  manner,  like  Larry  King's  when  there  was 
something  in  the  wind,  seemed  quiet,  easy,  potential. 
His  searching  glance  held  warmth  and  a  gleam  that 
thrilled  Neale.  But  he  was  ceremonious,  not  permitting 
himself  his  old  familiarity  before  these  dignitaries  of  the 
*reat  railroad. 

"Gentlemen,  you  remember  Mr.  Neale,"  said  Lodge. 

They  were  cordial — pleasant. 

Warburton  vigorously  shook  Neale's  hand,  and  leaned 

287 


THE  u.  P.  TRAIL 

back,  after  the  manner  of  matured  men,  to  look  Neale 
over. 

"Young  man,  I'm  glad  to  meet  you  again,"  he  declared, 
in  his  big  voice.  ' '  Remember  him !  Well,  I  do — though  he's 
thinner,  older." 

"Small  wonder,"  interposed  the  chief.  " He's  been  doing 
a  man's  work." 

"Neale,  back  there  in  Omaha  you  got  sore — you  quit 
us,"  went  on  Warburton,  reprovingly.  "That  was  bad 
business.  I  cottoned  to  you — and  I  might  have —  But  no 
matter.  You're  with  us  again." 

"Mr.  T7arl>urton,  I'm  ashamed  of  that,"  replied  Neale, 
hastily.  "But  I  was  hot-headed  ...  am  so  still,  I 
fear." 

"So  am  I.  So  is  Lodge.  So  is  any  man  worth  a  damn," 
replied  the  director. 

"Mr.  Ncalc,  you  look  cool  enough  now,"  observed 
Rogers,  smiling.  "Wish  I  was  as  wet  and  cool  as  you 
are.  It's  hot — in  this  desert." 

Warburton  took  off  his  frock-coat.  "You  gentlemen 
aren't  going  to  have  any  the  best  of  me.  .  .  .  And  now, 
Neale,  tell  us  things." 

Neale  looked  at  his  papers  and  then  at  his  chief.  "For 
instance,"  said  Lodge,  "tell  us  about  Blake  and  Coffee." 

"Haven't  you  seen  them — heard  from  them?"  nv 
quired  Neale. 

"  No.    Henney  has  not,  either.    And  they  were  his  men." 

"Gentlemen,  I'm  afraid  I  lost  my  head  in  regard  to 
them." 

"Explain,  please,"  said  Warburton.  "We  will  judge 
your  conduct." 

It  was  a  rather  difficult  moment  for  Neale,  because  his 
actions  regarding  the  two  engineers  now  appeared  to  have 
been  the  result  of  violent  temper,  rather  than  a  dignified 
exercise  of  authority.  But  then  as  he  remembered  Blake's 
offer  and  Coffee's  threat  the  heat  thrilled  along  his  nerves; 
and  that  stirred  him  to  forceful  expression. 

288 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

*'I  drove  them  both  out  of  this  camp." 

"Why?"  queried  Warburton,  sharply. 

"Blake  tried  to  bribe  me,  and  Coffee—" 

"One  at  a  time,"  interrupted  Warburton,  and  he  thrust 
a  strong  hand  through  his  hair,  ruffling  it.  He  began  to 
scent  battle.  "What  did  Blake  try  to  bribe  you  to  do?" 

"  He  didn't  say.    But  he  meant  me  to  cover  their  tracks." 

"So!  .   .   .  And  what  did  Coffee  do?" 

"He  tried  to  pull  a  gun  on  me." 

4 '  Why  ?    Be  explicit,  please. ' ' 

"Well,  he  threatened  me.  And  I  laughed  at  him — called 
him  names." 

"What  names?" 

"Quite  a  lot,  if  I  remember.  The  one  he  objected  to 
was  thief.  ...  I  repeated  that,  and  snatched  some 
telegrams  from  his  pocket.  He  tried  to  draw  his  gun  on 
me — and  then  I  drove  them  both  out  of  camp.  They  got 
through  safely,  for  they  were  seen  in  Benton." 

"Sir,  it  appears  to  me  you  lost  your  head  to  good  pur 
pose,"  said  Warburton.  "Now  just  what  were  the  tracks 
they  wanted  you  to  cover?" 

"I  drew  the  original  plans  for  Number  Ten.  They  had 
not  followed  them.  To  be  exact,  they  did  not  drive  piles 
to  hold  the  cribbings  for  the  piers.  They  did  not  go  deep 
enough.  They  sank  shafts,  they  built  coffer-dams,  they 
put  in  piers  over  and  over  again.  There  was  forty  feet  of 
quicksand  under  all  their  work  and  of  course  it  slipped  and 
sank." 

Warburton  slowly  got  up.  He  was  growing  purple  in 
the  face.  His  hair  seemed  rising.  He  doubled  a  huge  fist. 
"Over  and  over  again!"  he  roared,  furiously.  "Over  and 
over  again!  Lodge,  do  you  hear  that?" 

"Yes.  Sounds  kind  of  familiar  to  me,"  replied  the 
chief,  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles.  He  was  beyond  rage 
now.  He  saw  the  end.  He  alone,  perhaps,  had  realized 
the  nature  of  that  great  work.  And  that  smile  had  been 
sad  as  well  as  triumphant. 

289 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Warburton  stamped  up  and  down  the  car  aisle.  Mam\ 
festly  he  wanted  to  smash  something  or  to  take  out  his 
anger  upon  his  comrades.  That  was  not  the  quick  rage  of 
a  moment ;  it  seemed  the  bursting  into  flame  of  a  smolder 
ing  fire.  He  used  language  more  suited  to  one  of  Benton's 
dance-halls  than  the  private  car  of  the  directors  of  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad.  Once  he  stooped  over  Lodge, 
pounded  the  table. 

"Three  hundred  thousand  dollars  sunk  in  that  quick 
sand  hole!"  he  thundered.  "Over  and  over  again!  That's 
what  galls  me.  Work  done  over  and  over — unnecessary — 
worse  than  useless — all  for  dirty  gold!  Not  for  the  rail 
road,  but  for  gold!  .  .  .  God!  what  a  band  of  robbers 
we've  dealt  with!  .  .  .  Lodge,  why  in  hell  didn't  you 
send  Neale  out  here  at  the  start?" 

A  shadow  lay  dark  in  the  chief's  lined  face.  Why  had 
he  not  done  a  million  other  things?  Why,  indeed!  He 
did  not  answer  the  irate  director. 

"Three  hundred  thousand  dollars  sunk  in  that  hole — 
for  nothing!"  shouted  Warburton,  in  a  final  explosion. 

The  other  two  directors  laughed.  "Pooh!"  exclaimed 
Rogers,  softly.  "What  is  that?  A  drop  in  the  bucket! 
Consult  your  note-book,  Warburton." 

And  that  speech  cooled  the  fighting  director.  It 
contained  volumes.  It  evidently  struck  home.  War- 
burton  growled,  he  mopped  his  red  face,  he  fell  into  a 
seat. 

"Lodge,  excuse  me,"  he  said,  apologetically.  "What 
our  fine  young  friend  here  told  me  was  like  some  one  stepping 
on  my  gouty  foot.  I've  been  maybe  a  little  too  zealous — 
too  exacting.  Then  I'm  old  and  testy.  .  .  .  What  does  it 
matter?  How  could  it  have  been  prevented?  Alas!  it's 
black  like  that  hideous  Benton.  .  .  .  But  we're  coming 
out  into  the  light.  Lodge,  didn't  you  tell  me  this  Number 
Ten  bridge  was  the  last  obstacle?" 

"I  did.  The  rails  will  go  down  now  fast  and  straight 
till  they  meet  out  there  in  Utah!  Soon!" 

290 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Warburton  became  composed.  The  red  died  out  of  his 
lace.  He  looked  at  Neale. 

"Young  man,  can  you  put  permanent  piers  in  that  sink 
hole  ?" 

"Yes.     They  are  started,  on  bed-rock,"  replied  Neale. 

"Bed-rock!"  he  repeated,  and  remained  gazing  at 
Neale  fixedly.  Then  he  turned  to  Lodge.  "Do  you  re 
member  that  wild  red-head  cowboy — Neale's  friend — 
when  he  said,  'I  reckon  thet's  aboot  all?'  .  .  .  I'll  never 
forget  him.  .  .  .  Lodge,  say  we  have  Lee  and  his  friend 
Senator  Dunn  come  in,  and  get  it  over.  An'  thet  '11  be 
aboot  all!" 

"  Thank  Heaven !"  replied  the  chief,  fervently.  He  called 
to  his  porter,  but  as  no  one  replied,  General  Lodge  rose 
and  went  into  the  next  car. 

Neale  had  experienced  a  disturbing  sensation  in  his 
breast.  Lee!  Allison  Lee!  The  mere  name  made  him  shake. 
He  could  not  understand,  but  he  felt  there  was  more  reason 
for  its  effect  on  him  than  his  relation  to  Allison  Lee  as  a 
contractor.  Somewhere  there  was  a  man  named  Lee 
who  was  Allie's  father,  and  Neale  knew  he  would  meet 
him  some  day. 

Then  when  the  chief  walked  back  into  the  car  with  several 
frock-coated  individuals,  Neale  did  recognize  in  the  pale 
face  of  one  a  resemblance  to  the  girl  he  loved. 

There  were  no  greetings.  This  situation  had  no  for 
malities.  Warburton  faced  them  and  he  seemed  neither 
cold  nor  hot. 

"  Mr.  Lee,  as  a  director  of  the  road  I  have  to  inform  you 
that,  following  the  reports  of  our  engineer  here,  your  pres 
ent  contracts  are  void  and  you  will  not  get  any  more." 

A  white  radiance  of  rage  swiftly  transformed  Allison 
Lee.  His  eyes  seemed  to  blaze  purple  out  of  his  white  face. 

And  Neale  knew  him  to  be  Allie's  father — saw  the 
beauty  and  fire  of  her  eyes  in  his. 

"Warburton!  You'll  reconsider.  I  have  great  in 
fluence — " 

291 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"To  hell  with  your  influence!"  retorted  Warburton,  the 
lion  in  him  rising.  "The  builders — the  directors — the 
owners  of  the  U.  P.  R.  are  right  here  in  this  car.  Do  you 
understand  that?  Do  you  demand  that  I  call  a  spade  a 
spade?" 

"I  have  been  appointed  by  Congress.    I  will — " 

"Congress  or  no  Congress,  you  will  never  rebuild  a 
foot  of 'this  railroad,"  thundered  Warburton.  He  stood 
there  glaring,  final,  assured.  "For  the  sake  of  your — your 
government  connections,  let  us  say — let  well  enough  alone." 

"This  upstart  boy  of  an  engineer!"  burst  out  Lee,  in 
furious  resentment.  "Who  is  he?  How  dare  he  accuse  or 
report  against  me?" 

"Mr.  Lee,  your  name  has  never  been  mentioned  by 
him,"  replied  the  director. 

Lee  struggled  for  self-control.  "But,  Warburton,  it's 
preposterous!"  he  protested.  "This  wild  boy — the  as 
sociate  of  desperadoes — his  report,  whatever  it  is — absurd! 
Absurd  as  opposed  to  my  position!  A  cub  surveyor — slick 
with  tongue  and  figures — to  be  thrown  in  my  face!  It's 
outrageous !  1 11  have  him — ' ' 

Warburton  held  up  a  hand  that  impelled  Lee  to  silencec 
In  that  gesture  Neale  read  what  stirred  him  to  his  souL 
It  was  coming.  He  saw  it  again  in  General  Lodge's  fleet 
ing,  rare  smile.  He  held  his  breath.  The  old  pang  throbbed 
in  his  breast. 

"Lee,  pray  let  me  enlighten  you  and  Senator  Dunn," 
said  Warburton,  sonorously,  "and  terminate  this  awkward 
interview.  .  .  .  When  the  last  spike  is  driven  out  here — • 
presently — Mr.  Neale  will  be  chief  engineer  of  main 
tenance  of  way  of  the  Union  Pacific  Itailroad." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SO  for  Neale  the  wonderful  dream  had  come  to  pass, 
and  but  for  the  memory  that  made  all  hours  of  life 
bitter  his  cup  of  joy  would  have  been  full. 

He  made  his  headquarters  in  Benton  and  spent  his  days 
riding  east  or  west  over  the  line,  taking  up  the  great  re 
sponsibility  he  had  long  trained  for — the  maintaining  of 
the  perfect  condition  of  the  railroad. 

Toward  the  end  of  that  month  Neale  was  summoned 
to  Omaha. 

The  message  had  been  signed  Warburton.  Upon  arriving 
at  the  terminus  of  the  road  Neale  found  a  marvelous 
change  even  in  the  short  time  since  he  had  been  there. 
Omaha  had  become  a  city.  It  developed  that  Warburton 
had  been  called  back  to  New  York,  leaving  word  for 
Neale  to  wait  for  orders. 

Neale  availed  himself  of  this  period  to  acquaint  himself 
with  the  men  whom  he  would  deal  with  in  the  future. 
Among  them,  and  in  the  roar  of  the  railroad  shops  and 
the  bustle  of  the  city,  he  lost,  perhaps  temporarily,  that 
haunting  sense  of  pain  and  gloom.  Despite  himself  the 
deference  shown  him  was  flattering,  and  his  old  habit 
of  making  friends  reasserted  itself.  His  place  was  assured 
now.  There  were  rumors  in  the  air  of  branch  lines  for  the 
Union  Pacific.  He  was  consulted  for  advice,  importuned 
for  positions,  invited  here  and  there.  So  that  the  days  in 
Omaha  were  both  profitable  and  pleasurable. 

Then  came  a  telegram  from  Warburton  calling  him 
to  Washington,  D.  C. 

It  took  more  than  two  days  to  get  there,  and  the  time 

293 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

dragged  slowly  for  Neale.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his" 
importance  grew  as  he  traveled,  a  fact  which  was  amusing 
to  him.  All  this  resembled  a  dream. 

When  he  reached  the  hotel  designated  in  the  telegram 
it  was  to  receive  a  warm  greeting  from  Warburton. 

"It's  a  long  trip  to  make  for  nothing,"  said  the  di 
rector.  "And  that's  what  it  amounts  to  now.  I  thought 
I'd  need  you  to  answer  a  few  questions  for  me.  But  you'll 
not  be  questioned  officially,  and  so  you'd  better  keep  a 
close  mouth.  .  .  .  We've  raised  the  money.  The  com 
pletion  of  the  U.  P.  R.  is  assured." 

Neale  could  only  conjecture  what  those  questions 
might  have  been,  for  the  director  offered  no  explanation. 
And  this  circumstance  recalled  to  mind  his  former  im 
pression  of  the  complexity  of  the  financial  and  political 
end  of  the  construction.  Warburton  took  him  to  dinner 
and  later  to  a  club,  and  introduced  him  to  many  men. 

For  this  alone  Neale  was  glad  that  he  had  been  sum 
moned  to  the  capital.  He  met  Senators,  Congressmen, 
and  other  government  officials,  and  many  politicians  and 
prominent  men,  all  of  whom,  he  was  surprised  to  note, 
were  well  informed  regarding  the  Union  Pacific.  He  talked 
with  them,  but  answered  questions  guardedly.  And  he 
listened  to  discussions  and  talks  covering  every  phase  of 
the  work,  from  the  Credit  Mobilier  to  the  Chinese  coolies 
that  were  advancing  from  the  west  to  meet  the  Paddies  of 
his  own  division. 

How  strange  to  realize  that  the  great  railroad  had  its 
nucleus,  its  impetus,  and  its  completion  in  such  a  center 
as  this!  Here  were  the  frock-coated,  soft- voiced,  cigar- 
smoking  gentlemen  among  whom  Warburton  and  his  di 
rectors  had  swung  the  colossal  enterprise.  What  a  vast 
difference  between  these  men  and  the  builders!  With  the 
handsome  white-haired  Warburton,  and  his  associates, 
as  they  smoked  their  rich  cigars  and  drank  their  wine, 
Neale  contrasted  Casey  and  McDermott  and  many 
another  burly  spiker  or  teamster  out  on  the  line.  Eaci? 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

class  was  necessary  to  this  task.  These  Easterners  talked 
of  money,  of  gold,  as  a  grade  foreman  might  have  talked 
of  gravel.  They  smoked  and  conversed  at  ease,  laughing 
at  sallies,  gossiping  over  what  was  a  tragedy  west  of  North 
Platte;  and  about  them  was  an  air  of  luxury,  of  power, 
of  importance,  and  a  singular  grace  that  Neale  felt  rather 
than  saw. 

Strangest  of  all  to  him  was  the  glimpse  he  got  into  the 
labyrinthine  plot  built  around  the  stock,  the  finance,  the 
gold  that  was  constructing  the  road.  He  was  an  en 
gineer,  with  a  deductive  habit  of  mind,  but  he  would 
never  be  able  to  trace  the  intricacy  of  this  monumental 
aggregation  of  deals.  Yet  he  was  hugely  interested. 
Much  of  the  scorn  and  disgust  he  had  felt  out  on  the  line 
for  the  mercenaries  connected  with  the  work  he  forgot  here 
among  these  frock-coated  gentlemen. 

An  hour  later  Neale  accompanied  Warburton  to  the 
station  where  the  director  was  to  board  a  train  for  his 
return  to  New  York. 

"You'll  start  back  to-morrow,"  said  Warburton.  "I'll 
see  you  soon,  I  hope — out  there  in  Utah  where  the  last 
spike  is  to  be  driven.  That  will  be  the  day — the  hour !  .  .  . 
It  will  be  celebrated  all  over  the  United  States." 

Neale  returned  to  his  hotel,  trying  to  make  out  the 
vital  thing  that  had  come  to  him  on  this  hurried  and  ap 
parently  useless  journey.  His  mind  seemed  in  a  whirl. 
Yet  as  he  pondered,  there  gradually  loomed  up  the  reflec 
tion  that  in  the  eastern,  or  constructive,  end  of  the  great 
plan  there  were  the  same  spirits  of  evil  and  mystery  as 
existed  in  the  western,  or  building,  end.  Here  big  men 
were  interested,  involved;  out  there  bigger  men  sweat  and 
burned  and  aged  and  died.  The  difference  was  that  these 
toilers  gave  all  for  an  ideal  while  the  directors  and  their 
partners  thought  only  of  money,  of  profits. 

Neale  restrained  what  might  have  been  contempt,  but 
he  thought  that  if  these  financiers  could  have  seen  the  life 
of  the  diggers  and  spikers  as  he  knew  it  they  might  be 

295 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

actuated  by  a  nobler  motive.  Before  he  dropped  to  sleep 
that  night  he  concluded  that  his  trip  to  Washington, 
and  the  recognition  accorded  him  by  Warburton's  circle, 
had  fixed  a  new  desire  in  his  heart  to  heave  some  more 
rails  and  drive  some  more  spikes  for  the  railroad  he  loved 
so  well.  To  him  the  work  had  been  something  for  which 
he  had  striven  with  all  his  might  and  for  which  he  had 
risked  his  life.  Not  only  had  his  brain  been  given  to 
the  creation,  but  his  muscles  had  ached  from  the  actual 
physical  toil  attendant  upon  this  biggest  of  big  jobs. 

When  Neale  at  last  reached  Benton  it  was  night.  Benton 
and  night!  And  he  had  forgotten.  A  mob  of  men  surged 
down  and  up  on  the  train.  Neale  had  extreme  difficulty 
in  getting  off  at  all.  But  the  excitement,  the  hurry,  the 
discordant  and  hoarse  medley  of  many  voices,  were  unusual 
at  that  hour  around  the  station,  even  for  strenuous  Benton. 
All  these  men  were  carrying  baggage.  Neale  shouted 
questions  into  passing  ears,  until  at  length  some  fellow 
heard  and  yelled  a  reply. 

The  last  night  of  Benton! 

He  understood  then.  The  great  and  vile  construction 
camp  had  reached  the  end  of  its  career.  It  was  being  torn 
down — moved  away — depopulated.  There  was  an  exodus. 
In  another  forty-eight  hours  all  that  had  been  Benton, 
with  its  accumulated  life  and  gold  and  toil,  would  be 
incorporated  in  another  and  a  greater  and  a  last  camp — 
Roaring  City. 

The  contrast  to  the  beautiful  Washington,  the  check 
to  his  half -dreaming  memory  of  what  he  had  experienced 
there,  the  sudden  plunge  into  this  dim-lighted,  sordid,  and 
roaring  hell,  all  brought  about  in  Neale  a  revulsion  of 
feeling. 

And  with  the  sinking  of  his  spirit  there  returned  the 
old  haunting  pangs — the  memory  of  Allie  Lee,  the  despair 
ing  doubts  of  life  or  death  for  her.  Beyond  the  camp 
loomed  the  dim  hills,  mystical,  secretive,  and  unchange 
able.  If  she  were  out  there  among  them,  dead  or 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

t*>  know  it  would  be  a  blessed  relief.  It  was  this  horror 
of  Benton  that  he  feared. 

He  walked  the  street,  up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
until  the  hour  was  late  and  he  was  tired.  All  the  halls 
and  saloons  were  blazing  in  full  blast.  Once  he  heard  low, 
hoarse  cries  and  pistol-shots — and  then  again  quick,  dull, 
booming  guns.  How  strange  they  should  make  him  shiver  f 
But  all  seemed  strange.  From  these  sounds  he  turned 
away,  not  knowing  what  to  do  or  where  to  go,  since  sleep 
or  rest  was  impossible.  Finally  he  went  into  a  gambling- 
den  and  found  a  welcome  among  players  whose  faces  he 
knew. 

It  was  Benton's  last  night,  and  there  was  something  in 
the  air,  menacing,  terrible. 

Neale  gave  himself  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  hour  and  the 
game.  He  had  almost  forgotten  himself  when  a  white, 
jeweled  hand  flashed  over  his  shoulder,  to  touch  it  softly, 
He  heard  his  name  whispered.  Looking  up,  he  saw  the 
flushed  and  singularly  radiant  face  of  Beauty  Stanton. 

20 


CHAPTER  XXV 

afternoon  and  night  of  pay-day  in  Benton,  during 
1  which  Allie  Lee  was  barred  in  her  room,  were  hideous, 
sleepless,  dreadful  hours.  Her  ears  were  filled  with  Ben- 
ton's  roar — whispers  and  wails  and  laughs ;  thick  shouts  of 
drunken  men;  the  cold  voices  of  gamblers;  clink  of  gold 
and  clink  of  glasses;  a  ceaseless  tramp  and  shuffle  of  boots; 
pistol-shots  muffled  and  far  away,  pistol-shots  ringing  and 
near  at  hand;  the  angry  hum  of  brawling  men;  and 
strangest  of  all  this  dreadful  roar  were  the  high-pitched, 
piercing  voices  of  woman,  in  songs  without  soul,  in  laughter 
without  mirth,  in  cries  wild  and  terrible  and  mournful. 

Allie  lay  in  the  dark,  praying  for  the  dawn,  shuddering 
at  this  strife  of  sound,  fearful  that  any  moment  the  violence 
of  Benton  would  burst  through  the  flimsy  walls  of  her 
room  to  destroy  her.  But  the  roar  swelled  and  subsided  and 
died  away;  the  darkness  gave  place  to  gray  light  and 
then  dawn;  the  sun  arose,  the  wind  began  to  blow.  Now 
Benton  slept,  the  sleep  of  sheer  exhaustion. 

Her  mirror  told  Allie  the  horror  of  that  night.  Her  face 
was  white;  her  eyes  were  haunted  by  terrors,  with  great 
dark  shadows  beneath.  She  could  not  hold  her  hands 
steady. 

Late  that  afternoon  there  were  stirrings  and  sounds  in 
Durade's  hall.  The  place  had  awakened.  Presently 
Durade  himself  brought  her  food  and  drink.  He  looked 
haggard,  worn,  yet  radiant.  He  did  not  seem  to  note 
Allie's  condition  or  appearance. 

''That  deaf  and  dumb  fool  who  waited  on  you  is  gone," 
said  Durade.  "Yesterday  was  pay-day  in  Benton.  .  .  . 

298 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Many  are  gone.  .  .  .  Allie,  I  won  fifty  thousand  dollars  in 
gold!" 

"Isn't  that  enough?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  hear  her,  but  went  on  talking  of  his  winnings, 
of  gold,  of  games,  and  of  big  stakes  coming.  His  lips 
trembled,  his  eyes  glittered,  his  fingers  clawed  at  the 
air. 

For  Allie  it  was  a  relief  when  Durade  left  her.  He  had 
almost  reached  the  apex  of  his  fortunes  and  the  inevitable 
end.  Allie  realized  that  if  she  were  ever  to  lift  a  hand  to 
save  herself  she  must  do  so  at  once. 

This  was  a  fixed  and  desperate  thought  in  her  mind  when 
Durade  called  her  to  her  work. 

Allie  always  entered  that  private  den  of  Durade's  with 
eyes  cast  down.  She  had  been  scorched  too  often  by  the 
glances  of  men.  As  she  went  in  this  time  she  felt  the 
presence  of  gamblers,  but  they  were  quieter  than  those 
to  whom  she  had  become  accustomed.  Durade  ordered 
her  to  fetch  drinks,  then  he  went  on  talking,  rapidly,  in 
excitement,  elated,  boastful,  almost  gay. 

Allie  did  not  look  up.    As  she  carried  the  tray  to  the 
large  table  she  heard  a  man  whisper  low:   "Byjove!  .  .  . 
Hough,  that's  the  girl!" 

Then  she  heard  a  slight,  quick  intake  of  breath,  and  the 
exclamation,  "  Good  God !" 

Both  voices  thrilled  Allie.  The  former  seemed  the  low, 
well-modulated,  refined,  and  drawling  speech  of  an  English 
man;  the  latter  was  keen,  quick,  soft,  and  full  of  geniuine 
emotion. 

Allie  returned  to  her  chair  by  the  sideboard  before  she 
ventured  to  look  up.  Durade  was  playing  cards  with  four 
men,  three  of  whom  were  black-garbed,  after  the  manner 
of  professional  gamblers.  The  other  player  wore  gray,  and 
a  hat  of  unusual  shape,  with  wide,  loose,  cloth  band.  He 
removed  his  hat  as  he  caught  Allie's  glance,  and  she  asso 
ciated  the  act  with  the  fact  of  her  presence.  She  thought 
*Jiat  this  must  be  the  man  whose  voice  had  proclaimed  him 

209 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

English.  He  had  a  fair  face,  lined  and  shadowed  and 
dissipated,  with  tired  blue  eyes  and  a  blond  mustache 
that  failed  to  altogether  hide  a  well-shaped  mouth.  It 
was  the  kindest  and  saddest  face  Allie  had  ever  seen  there. 
She  read  its  story.  In  her  extremity  she  had  acquired  a 
melancholy  wisdom  in  the  judgment  of  the  faces  of  the 
men  drifting  through  Durade's  hall.  What  Allie  had 
heard  in  this  Englishman's  voice  she  saw  in  his  features. 
He  did  not  look  at  her  again.  He  played  cards  wearily, 
carelessly,  indifferently,  with  his  mind  plainly  on  something 
else. 

"Ancliffe,  how  many  cards?"  called  one  of  the  black- 
garbed  men. 

The  Englishman  threw  down  his  cards.  "None,"  he 
said. 

The  game  was  interrupted  by  a  commotion  in  the  ad 
joining  room,  which  was  the  public  gambling-hall  of 
Durade's  establishment. 

' '  Another  fight !' '  exclaimed  Durade,  impatiently.  ' '  And 
only  Mull  and  Fresno  showed  up  to-day." 

Harsh  voices  and  heavy  stamps  were  followed  by  a 
pistol-shot.  Durade  hurriedly  arose. 

"Gentlemen,  excuse  me,"  he  said,  and  went  out.  One 
of  the  gamblers  also  left  the  room,  and  another  crossed  it 
to  peep  through  the  door. 

This  left  the  Englishman  sitting  at  the  table  with  the 
last  gambler,  whose  back  was  turned  toward  Allie.  She 
saw  the  Englishman  lean  forward  to  speak.  Then  the 
gambler  arose  and,  turning,  came  directly  toward  her. 

"My  name  is  Place  Hough,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly 
and  low.  "  I  am  a  gambler — but  a  gentleman.  I've  heard 
strange  rumors  about  you,  and  now  I  see  for  myself. 
Are  you  Allie  Lee?" 

Allie's  heart  seemed  to  come  to  her  throat.  She  shook 
all  over,  and  she  gazed  with  piercing  intensity  at  the 
man.  When  he  had  arisen  from  the  table  he  had  appeared 
the  same  black-garbed,  hard-faced  gambler  as  any  of 

300 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  others.  But  looked  at  closely,  he  was  different.  Under 
neath  the  cold,  expressionless  face  worked  something 
mobile  and  soft.  His  eyes  were  of  crystal  clearness  and 
remarkable  for  a  penetrating  power.  They  shone  with 
wonder,  curiosity,  sympathy. 

Allie  instinctively  trusted  the  voice  and  then  consciously 
trusted  the  man.  "Oh,  sir,  I  am — distressed — ill  from 
fright!"  she  faltered.  "If  I  only  dared—" 

"You  dare  tell  me,"  he  interrupted,  swiftly.  "Be 
quick.  Are  you  here  willingly  with  this  man?" 

"Oh  no!" 

"What  then?" 

"Oh,  sir— you  do  not  think— I—" 

"I  knew  you  were  good,  innocent — the  moment  I  laid 
eyes  on  you,  .  .  .  Who  are  you?" 

"  Allie  Lee.    My  father  is  Allison  Lee." 

"Whew!"  The  gambler  whistled  softly  and,  turning, 
glanced  at  the  door,  then  beckoned  Ancliffe.  The  English 
man  arose.  In  the  adjoining  rooms  sounds  of  strife  were 
abating. 

"Ancliffe,  this  girl  is  Allie  Lee — daughter  of  Allison 
Lee — a  big  man  of  the  U.  P.  R.  .  .  .  Something  terribly 
wrong  here."  And  he  whispered  to  Ancliffe. 

Allie  became  aware  of  the  Englishman's  scrutiny,  doubt 
ful,  sad,  yet  kind  and  curious.  Indeed  these  men  had 
heard  of  her. 

"Hough,  you  must  be  mistaken,"  he  said. 

Allie  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  emotion.  Her  opportunity 
had  come.  "I  am  Allie  Lee.  My  mother  ran  off  with 
Durade — to  California.  He  used  her  as  a  lure  to  draw  men 
to  his  gambling-hells — as  he  uses  me  now.  .  .  .  Two  years 
ago  we  escaped — started  east  with  a  caravan.  The  Indians 
attacked  us.  I  crawled  under  a  rock — escaped  the  massacrec 
I—" 

"Never  mind  all  your  story,"  interrupted  Hough. 
"We  haven't  time  for  that.  I  believe  you.  .  .  .  You  are 
held  a  close  prisoner?" 

301 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Oh  yes — locked  and  barred.  I  never  get  out.  I  have 
been  threatened  so — that  until  now  I  feared  to  tell  any 
one.  But  Durade — he  is  going  mad.  I — I  can  bear  it  no 
longer." 

"Miss  Lee,  you  shall  not  bear  it,"  declared  Ancliffe. 
"We'll  take  you  out  of  here." 

"How?"  queried  Hough,  shortly. 

Ancliffe  was  for  walking  right  out  with  her,  but  Hough 
shook  his  head. 

"Listen,"  began  Allie,  hurriedly.  "He  would  kill  me 
the  instant  I  tried  to  escape.  He  loved  my  mother.  He 
does  not  believe  she  is  dead.  He  lives  only  to  be  revenged 
upon  her.  .  .  .  He  has  a  desperate  gang  here.  Fresno, 
Mull,  Stitt,  Black,  Grist,  Dayss,  a  greaser  called  Mex,  and 
others — all  the  worst  of  bad  men.  You  cannot  get  me  out 
of  here  alive  except  by  some  trick." 

"How  about  bringing  the  troops?" 

"Durade  would  kill  me  the  first  thing." 

"Could  we  steal  you  out  at  night?" 

"I  don't  see  how.  They  are  awake  all  night.  I  am 
barred  in,  watched.  .  .  .  Better  work  on  Durad^'s 
weakness.  Gold!  He's  mad  for  gold.  When  the  fever's 
on  him  he  might  gamble  me  away — or  sell  me  for  gold." 

Hough's  cold  eyes  shone  like  fire  in  ice.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  speak — then  quickly  motioned  Ancliffe  back  to 
the  table.  They  had  just  seated  themselves  when  the  two 
gamblers  returned,  followed  by  Durade.  He  was  rubbing 
his  hands  in  satisfaction. 

"What  was  the  fuss  about?"  queried  Hough,  tipping 
the  ashes  off  his  cigar. 

"Some  drunks  after  money  they  had  lost." 

"And  got  thrown  out  for  their  pains?"  inquired  An 
cliffe. 

"Yes.    Mull  and  Fresno  are  out  there  now." 

The  game  was  taken  up  again.  Allie  sensed  a  different 
note  in  it.  The  gambler  Hough  now  faced  her  in  his  po 
sition  at  the  table;  and  behind  every  card  he  played  there 

302 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

seemed  to  be  intense  purpose  and  tremendous  force.  An- 
diffe  soon  left  the  game.  But  he  appeared  fascinated  where 
formerly  he  had  been  indifferent.  Soon  it  developed  that 
Rough,  by  his  spirit  and  skill,  was  driving  his  opponents, 
inciting  their  passion  for  play,  working  upon  their  feelings. 
Durade  seemed  the  weakest  gambler,  though  he  had  the 
best  luck.  Good  luck  balanced  his  excited  play.  The 
two  other  gamblers  pitted  themselves  against  Hough. 

The  shadows  of  evening  had  begun  to  darken  the  room 
when  Durade  called  for  lights.  A  slim,  sloe-eyed,  pantherish- 
moving  Mexican  came  in  to  execute  the  order.  He  wore  a 
belt  with  a  knife  in  it  and  looked  like  a  brigand.  When 
he  had  lighted  the  lamps  he  approached  Durade  and 
spoke  in  Spanish.  Durade  replied  in  the  same  tongue. 
Then  the  Mexican  went  out.  One  of  the  gamblers  lost 
and  arose  from  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,  may  I  go  out  for  more  money  and  return 
to  the  game?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Hough. 

Durade  assented  with  bad  grace. 

The  game  went  on  and  grew  in  interest.  Probably  the 
Mexican  had  reported  the  fact  of  its  possibilities,  or  perhaps 
Durade  had  sent  out  word  of  some  nature.  For  one  by 
one  his  villainous  lieutenants  came  in,  stepping  softly, 
gleaming-eyed. 

"Durade,  have  you  stopped  play  outside?"  queried 
Hough. 

"Supper-time.    Not  much  going  on,"  replied  Mull. 

Hough  watched  this  speaker  with  keen  coolness. 

"I  did  not  address  you,"  he  said. 

Durade,  catching  the  drift,  came  out  of  his  absorption  of 
play  long  enough  to  say  that  with  a  big  game  at  hand  he 
did  not  want  to  risk  any  interruption.  He  spoke  frankly, 
but  he  did  not  look  sincere. 

Presently  the  second  gambler  announced  that  he  would 
consider  it  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  go  out  and  borrow 
money.  Then  he  left  hurriedly.  Durade  and  Hough  played 

303 


THE  U/P    TRAIL 

done;  and  the  luck  seesawed  from  one  to  the  other  unt2 
both  the  other  players  returned.  They  did  not  come 
alone.  Two  more  black-frocked,  black-sombreroed,  cold- 
faced  individuals  accompanied  them. 

"May  we  sit  in?"  they  asked. 

"With  pleasure,"  replied  Hough. 

Durade  frowned  and  the  glow  left  his  face.  Though  the 
luck  was  still  with  him,  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not 
favor  added  numbers.  Yet  the  man's  sensitiveness  to  any 
change  immediately  manifested  itself  when  he  won  the 
first  large  stake.  His  radiance  returned  and  also  his 
vanity. 

Hough  interrupted  the  game  by  striking  the  table 
with  his  hand.  The  sound  seemed  hard,  metallic,  yet  his 
hand  was  empty.  Any  attentive  observer  would  have 
become  aware  that  Hough  had  a  gun  up  his  sleeve.  But 
Durade  did  not  catch  the  significance. 

"I  object  to  that  man  leaning  over  the  table,"  said 
Hough,  and  he  pointed  to  the  lounging  Fresno. 

"Thet  so?"  leered  the  ugly  giant.  He  looked  bold  and 
vicious. 

"Do  not  address  me,"  ordered  Hough. 

Fresno  backed  away  silently  from  the  cold-faced  gambler. 

"  Don't  mind  him,  Hough, ' '  protested  Durade.  ' '  They're 
afi  excited.  Big  stakes  always  work  them  up." 

"Send  them  out  so  we  can  play  without  annoyance." 

"No,"  replied  Durade,  sharply.  "They  can  watch  the 
game." 

"Ancliffe,"  called  Hough,  just  as  sharply,  "fetch 
some  of  my  friends  to  watch  this  game.  Don't  forget 
Neale  and  Larry  King." 

Allie,  who  was  watching  and  listening  with  strained 
faculties,  nearly  fainted  at  the  sudden  mention  of  her 
Jover  Neale  and  her  friend  Larry.  She  went  blind  for  a 
second;  the  room  turned  round  and  round;  she  thought 
her  heart  would  burst  with  joy. 

The  Englishman  hurried  out. 

304 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Durade  looked  up  with  a  passionate  and  wolfish  swift° 
ness. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  want  some  of  my  friends  to  watch  the  game,"  re 
plied  Hough. 

"But  I  don't  allow  that  red-headed  cowboy  gun-fighter 
to  come  into  my  place." 

"That  is  regrettable,  for  you  will  make  an  exception 
this  time.  .  .  .  Durade,  you  don't  stand  well  in  Benton.  I 
do." 

The  Spaniard's  eyes  glittered.  "You  insinuate — 
Senor—  " 

"Yes,"  interposed  Hough,  and  his  cold,  deliberate  voice 
dominated  the  explosive  Durade.  "Do  you  remember  a 
gambler  named  Jones?  .  .  .  He  was  shot  in  this  room.  .  .  . 
If  I  should  happen  to  be  shot  here — in  the  same  way — 
you  and  your  gang  would  not  last  long  in  Benton!" 

Durade 's  face  grew  livid  with  rage  and  fear.  And  in  that 
moment  the  mask  was  off.  The  nature  of  the  Spaniard 
stood  forth.  Another  manifest  fact  was  that  Durade 
had  not  before  matched  himself  against  a  gambler  of 
Hough's  caliber. 

"Well,  are  you  only  a  bluff  or  do  we  go  on  with  the 
game?"  inquired  Hough. 

Durade  choked  back  his  rage  and  signified  with  a  motion 
of  his  hand  that  play  should  be  resumed. 

Allie  fastened  her  eyes  upon  the  door.  She  was  in  a 
tumult  of  emotion.  Despite  that,  her  mind  revolved 
wild  and  intermittent  ideas  as  to  the  risk  of  letting  Neale 
see  and  recognize  her  there.  Yet  her  joy  was  so  overpower 
ing  that  she  believed  if  he  entered  the  door  she  would 
rush  to  him  and  trust  in  God  to  save  her.  In  God  and 
Reddy  King!  She  remembered  the  cowboy,  and  a  thrill 
linked  all  her  emotions.  Durade  and  his  gang  would 
face  a  terrible  reckoning  if  Reddy  King  ever  entered  to 
see  her  there. 

Moments  passed.  The  gambling  went  on.  The  players 

305 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

spoke  low;  the  spectators  were  silent.  Discordant  sounds 
from  outside  disturbed  the  quiet. 

Allie  stared  fixedly  at  the  door.  Presently  it  opened. 
Ancliffe  entered  with  several  men,  all  quick  in  movement, 
alert  of  eye.  But  Neale  and  Larry  King  were  not  among 
them.  Allie's  heart  sank  like  lead.  The  revulsion  of 
feeling,  the  disappointment,  was  sickening.  She  saw 
Anclifle  shake  his  head,  and  divined  in  the  action  that 
he  had  not  been  able  to  find  the  friends  Hough  wanted 
particularly.  Then  Allie  felt  the  incredible  strangeness 
of  being  glad  that  Neale  was  not  to  find  her  there — that 
Larry  was  not  to  throw  his  guns  on  Durade's  crowd. 
There  might  be  a  chance  of  her  being  liberated  without 
violence. 

This  reaction  left  her  weak  and  dazed  for  a  while.  Still 
she  heard  the  low  voices  of  the  gamesters,  the  slap  of 
cards  and  clink  of  gold.  Her  wits  had  gone  from  her 
ever  since  the  mention  of  Neale.  She  floundered  in  a 
whirl  of  thoughts  and  fears  until  gradually  she  recovered 
self-possession.  Whatever  instinct  or  love  or  spirit  had 
guided  her  had  done  so  rightly.  She  had  felt  Neale's  pres 
ence  in  Benton.  It  was  stingingly  sweet  to  realize  that. 
Her  heart  swelled  with  pangs  of  fullest  measure.  Surely  he 
again  believed  her  dead.  Soon  he  would  come  upon  her — 
face  to  face — somewhere.  He  would  learn  she  was  alive — 
unharmed — true  to  him  with  all  her  soul.  Indians,  rene 
gade  Spaniards,  Benton  with  its  terrors,  a  host  of  evil 
men,  not  these  nor  anything  else  could  keep  her  from  Neale 
forever.  She  had  believed  that  always,  but  never  as 
now,  in  the  clearness  of  this  beautiful  spiritual  insight, 
Behind  her  belief  was  something  unfathomable  and  great. 
Not  the  movement  of  progress  as  typified  by  those  men 
who  had  dreamed  of  the  railroad,  nor  the  spirit  of  the 
unconquerable  engineers  as  typified  by  Neale,  nor  the 
wildness  of  wild  youth  like  Larry  King,  nor  the  heroic 
labor  and  simplicity  and  sacrifice  of  common  men,  nor 
the  inconceivable  passion  of  these  gamblers  for  gold,  nor 

306 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  mystery  hidden  in  the  mad  laughter  of  these  fallen 
women,  strange  and  sad  on  the  night  wind — not  any  of 
these  things  nor  all  of  them,  wonderful  and  incalculable 
as  they  were,  loomed  so  great  as  the  spirit  that  upheld 
Allie  Lee. 

When  she  raised  her  head  again  the  gambling  scene  had 
changed.  Only  three  men  played — Hough,  Durade,  and 
another.  And  even  as  Allie  looked  this  third  player  threw 
his  cards  into  the  deck  and  with  silent  gesture  rose  from 
the  table  to  take  a  position  with  the  other  black-garbed 
gamblers  standing  behind  Hough.  The  blackness  of 
their  attire  contrasted  strongly  with  the  whiteness  of  their 
faces.  They  had  lost  gold,  which  fact  meant  little  to  them. 
But  there  was  something  big  and  significant  in  their  pres 
ence  behind  Hough.  Gamblers  leagued  against  a  crooked 
gambling-hell !  Durade  had  lost  a  fortune,  yet  not  all  his 
fortune.  He  seemed  a  haggard,  flaming-eyed  wreck  of 
the  once  debonair  Durade.  His  hair  was  wet  and  di 
shevelled,  his  collar  was  open,  his  hand  wavered.  Blood 
trickled  down  from  his  lower  lip.  He  saw  nothing  except 
the  gold,  the  cards,  and  that  steel-nerved,  gray-faced, 
implacable  Hough.  Behind  him  lined  up  his  gang,  ner 
vous,  strained,  frenzied,  with  eyes  on  the  gold — hate-filled, 
murderous  eyes. 

Allie  slipped  into  her  room,  leaving  the  door  ajar  so 
she  could  peep  out,  and  there  she  paced  the  floor,  wait 
ing,  listening  for  what  she  dared  not  watch.  The  gambler 
Hough  would  win  all  that  Durade  had,  and  then  stake  it 
against  her.  That  was  what  Allie  believed.  She  had  no 
doubts  of  Hough's  winning  her,  too,  but  she  doubted  if  he 
could  take  her  away.  There  would  be  a  fight.  And  if 
there  was  a  fight,  then  that  must  be  the  end  of  Durade. 
For  this  gambler,  Hough,  with  his  unshakable  nerve,  his 
piercing  eyes,  his  wonderful  white  hands,  swift  as  light — 
he  would  at  the  slightest  provocation  kill  Durade. 

Suddenly  Allie  was  arrested  by  a  loud,  long  suspiration — 
a  heave  of  heavy  breaths  in  the  room  of  the  gamblerSc 

307 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

A  chair  scraped,  noisily  breaking  the  silence,  which  in 
stantly  clamped  down  again. 

"Durade,  you're  done!"  It  was  the  cold,  ringing  voice 
of  Hough. 

Allie  ran  to  the  door,  peeped  through  the  crack.  Durade 
sat  there  like  a  wild  beast  bound.  Hough  stood  erect  over 
a  huge  golden  pile  on  the  table.  The  others  seemed  stiff 
in  their  tracks. 

"There's  a  fortune  here,"  went  on  Hough,  indicating 
the  gold.  "All  I  had — all  our  gentlemen  opponents  had — 
all  you  had.  .  .  .  I  have  won  it  all !" 

Durade's  eyes  seemed  glued  to  that  dully  glistening 
heap.  He  could  not  even  look  up  at  the  coldly  passionate 
Hough. 

"All!    All!"  echoed  Durade. 

Then  Hough,  like  a  striking  hawk,  bent  toward  the 
Spaniard.  "Durade,  have  you  anything  more  to  bet?" 

Durade  was  the  only  man  who  moved.  Slowly  he  arose, 
shaking  in  every  limb,  and  not  till  he  became  erect  did  he 
unrivet  his  eyes  from  that  yellow  heap  on  the  table. 

"Senor — do  you — mock  me?"  he  gasped,  hoarsely. 

"  I  offer  you  my  winnings — all — for  the  girl  you  have  here!" 

"You  are  crazy!"  ejaculated  the  Spaniard. 

"Certainly.  .  .   .  But  hurry!    Do  you  accept?" 

"Senor,  I  would  not  sell  that  girl  for  all  the  gold  of  the 
Indies,"  replied  Durade,  instantly.  No  vacillation — no 
indecision  in  him  here.  Hough's  offer  held  no  lure  for 
this  Spaniard  who  had  committed  many  crimes  for  gold. 

11  But  you'll  gamble  her!''  asserted  Hough,  and  now  in 
deed  his  words  were  mockery.  In  one  splendid  gesture 
he  swept  his  winnings  into  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
the  gold  gave  out  a  ringing  clash.  As  a  gambler  he  read 
the  soul  of  his  opponent. 

Durade's  jaw  worked  convulsively,  as  if  he  had  difficulty 
in  holding  it  firm  enough  for  utterance.  What  he  would 
not  sell  for  any  price  he  would  risk  on  a  gambler's  strange 
faith  in  chance. 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"All  my  winnings  against  this  girl,"  went  on  Hough, 
relentlessly.  Scorn  and  a  taunting  dare  and  an  insidious 
persuasion  mingled  with  the  passion  of  his  offer.  He 
knew  how  to  inflame.  Durade,  as  a  gambler,  was  a  weakling 
in  the  grasp  of  a  giant.  "Come!  .  .  .  Do  you  accept?" 

Durade's  body  leaped,  as  if  an  irresistible  current  had 
been  shot  into  it. 

"S^,  Senor!"  he  cried,  with  power  and  joy  in  his  voice 
In  that  moment,  no  doubt  the  greatest  in  his  life  of  gambling, 
he  unconsciously  went  back  to  the  use  of  his  mother 
tongue. 

Actuated  by  one  impulse,  Hough  and  Durade  sat  down 
at  the  table.  The  others  crowded  around.  Fresno  lurched 
close,  with  a  wicked  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"I  was  onto  Hough,"  he  said  to  his  nearest  ally.  "It's 
the  girl  he's  after!" 

The  gamblers  cut  the  cards  for  who  should  deal.  Hough 
won.  For  him  victory  seemed  to  exist  in  the  suspense 
of  the  very  silence,  in  the  charged  atmosphere  of  the 
room.  He  began  to  shuffle  the  cards.  His  hands  were 
white,  shapely,  perfect,  like  a  woman's,  and  yet  not  beauti 
ful.  The  spirit,  the  power,  the  ruthless  nature  in  them 
had  no  relation  to  beauty.  How  marvelously  swift  they 
moved — too  swift  for  the  gaze  to  follow.  And  the  in^ 
comparable  dexterity  with  which  he  manipulated  the 
cards  gave  forth  the  suggestion  as  to  what  he  could  do  with 
them.  In  those  gleaming  hands,  in  the  flying  cards,  in 
the  whole  intenseness  of  the  gambler  there  showed  the 
power  and  the  intent  to  win.  The  crooked  Durade  had 
met  his  match,  a  match  who  toyed  with  him.  If  there 
were  an  element  of  chance  in  this  short  game  it  was  that 
of  the  uncertainty  of  life,  not  of  Durade's  chance  to  win. 
He  had  no  chance.  No  eye,  no  hand  could  have  justly  de 
tected  Hough  in  the  slightest  deviation  from  honesty.  Yet 
all  about  the  man  in  that  tense  moment  proved  what  a 
gambler  really  was. 

Durade  called  in  a  whisper  for  two  cards,  and  he  received 

309 


THE   IT.    P.   TRAIL 

them  with  trembling  fingers.  Terrible  hope  and  exulta 
tion  transformed  his  face. 

"I'll  take  three,"  said  Hough,  calmly.  With  deliberate 
care  and  slowness,  in  strange  contrast  to  his  former  mo 
tions,  he  took,  one  by  one,  three  cards  from  the  deck. 
Then  he  looked  at  them,  and  just  as  calmly  dropped  all 
his  cards,  face  up,  on  the  table,  disclosing  what  he  knew 
to  be  an  unbeatable  hand. 

Durade  stared.    A  thick  cry  escaped  him. 

Swiftly  Hough  rose.  "Durade,  I  have  won."  Then  he 
turned  to  his  friends.  "Gentlemen,  please  pocket  this 
gold." 

With  that  he  stepped  to  Allie's  door.  He  saw  her  peer 
ing  out.  "Come,  Miss  Lee,"  he  said. 

Allie  stepped  out,  trembling  and  unsteady  on  her  feet. 

The  Spaniard  now  seemed  compelled  to  look  up  from 
the  gold  Hough's  comrades  were  pocketing.  When  he 
saw  Allie  another  slow  and  remarkable  transformation 
came  over  him.  At  first  he  started  slightly  at  Hough's 
hand  on  Allie's  arm.  The  radiance  of  his  strange  passion 
for  gold,  that  had  put  a  leaping  glory  into  his  haggard 
face,  faded  into  a  dark  and  mounting  surprise.  A  blaze 
burned  away  the  shadows.  His  eyes  betrayed  an  un- 
supportable  sense  of  loss  and  the  spirit  that  repudiated  it. 
For  a  single  instant  he  was  magnificent — and  perhaps  in 
that  instant  race  and  blood  spoke;  then,  with  bewildering 
suddenness,  surely  with  the  suddenness  of  a  memory, 
he  became  a  black,  dripping-faced  victim  of  unutterable 
and  unquenchable  hate. 

Allie  recoiled  in  the  divination  that  Durade  saw  her 
mother  in  her.  No  memory,  no  love,  no  gold,  no  wager, 
could  ever  thwart  the  Spaniard. 

"Senor,  you  tricked  me!"  he  whispered. 

"I  beat  you  at  your  own  game,"  said  Hough.  "My 
friends  and  your  men  heard  the  stake — saw  the  game." 

"Senor,  I  would  not— bet— that  girl— for  any  stake !" 

"You  have  lost  her.  .  .  .  Let  me  warn  you,  Duradev 

310 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Be  careful,  once  in   your  life!  .  .  .  You're  welcome  to 
what  gold  is  left  there." 

Durade  shoved  back  the  gold  so  fiercely  that  he  up 
set  the  table,  and  its  contents  jangled  on  the  floor.  The 
spill  and  the  crash  of  a  scattered  fortune  released  Durade's 
men  from  their  motionless  suspense.  They  began  to  pick 
up  the  coins. 

The  Spaniard  was  halted  by  the  gleam  of  a  derringer 
in  Hough's  hand.  Hissing  like  a  snake,  Durade  stood 
still,  momentarily  held  back  by  a  fear  that  quickly  gave 
place  to  insane  rage. 

"Shoot  him!"  said  Ancliffe,  with  a  coolness  which 
proved  his  foresight. 

One  of  Hough's  friends  swung  a  cane,  smashing  a  lamp; 
then  with  like  swift  action  he  broke  the  other  lamp,  in 
stantly  plunging  the  room  into  darkness.  This  appeared 
to  be  the  signal  for  Durade's  men  to  break  loose  into  a 
mad  scramble  for  the  gold.  Durade  began  to  scream  and 
rush  forward. 

Allie  felt  herself  drawn  backward,  along  the  wall,  through 
her  door.  It  was  not  so  dark  in  there.  She  distinguished 
Hough  and  Ancliffe.  The  latter  closed  the  door.  Hough 
whispered  to  Allie,  though  the  din  in  the  other  room  made 
such  caution  needless. 

"Can  we  get  out  this  way?"  he  asked. 

"There's  a  window,"  replied  Allie. 

"Ancliffe,  open  it  and  get  her  out.  I'll  stop  Durade  if 
he  comes  in.  Hurry!" 

While  the  Englishman  opened  the  window  Hough  stood 
in  front  of  the  door  with  both  arms  extended.  Allie  could 
just  see  his  tall  form  in  the  pale  gloom.  Pandemonium 
had  begun  in  the  other  room,  with  Durade  screaming 
for  lights,  and  his  men  yelling  and  righting  for  the  gold, 
and  Hough's  friends  struggling  to  get  out.  But  they 
did  not  follow  Hough  into  this  room  and  evidently  must 
have  thought  he  had  escaped  through  the  other  door. 

"Come,"  said  Ancliffe,  touching  Allie. 

fttt 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  helped  her  get  out,  and  followed  laboriously.  Then 
he  softly  called  to  Hough.  The  gambler  let  himself  down 
swiftly  and  noiselessly. 

"Now  what?"  he  muttered. 

They  appeared  to  be  in  a  narrow  alley  between  a  house 
of  boards  and  a  house  of  canvas.  Excited  voices  sounded 
inside  this  canvas  structure  and  evidently  alarmed  Hough, 
for  with  a  motion  he  enjoined  silence  and  led  Allie  through 
the  dark  passage  out  into  a  gloomy  square  surrounded  by 
low,  dark  structures.  Ancliffe  followed  close  behind. 

The  night  was  dark,  with  no  stars  showing.  A  cool  wind 
blew  in  Allie's  face,  refreshing  her  after  her  long  confine 
ment.  Hough  began  groping  forward.  This  square  had 
a  rough  board  floor  and  a  skeleton  framework.  It  had 
been  a  house  of  canvas.  Some  of  the  partitions  were 
still  standing. 

"Look  for  a  door — any  place  to  get  out,"  whispered 
Hough  to  Ancliffe,  as  they  came  to  the  opposite  side  of 
this  square  space.  Hough,  with  Allie  close  at  his  heels, 
went  to  the  right  while  Ancliffe  went  to  the  left.  Hough 
went  so  far,  then  muttering,  drew  Allie  back  again  to 
the  point  whence  they  had  started.  Ancliffe  was  there. 

"No  place!    All  boarded  up  tight,"  he  whispered. 

"  Same  on  this  side.    We'll  have  to — " 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  Ancliffe,  holding  up  his  hand. 

There  appeared  to  be  noise  all  around,  but  mostly  on 
the  other  side  of  the  looming  canvas  house,  behind  which 
was  the  alleyway  that  led  to  Durade's  hall.  Gleams  of 
light  flashed  through  the  gloom.  Durade's  high,  quick 
voice  mingled  with  hoarser  and  deeper  tones.  Some  one 
in  the  canvas  house  was  talking  to  Durade,  who  apparently 
must  have  been  in  Allie's  room  and  at  her  window. 

"See  hyar,  Greaser,  we  ain't  harborin'  any  of  your 
outfit,  an'  we'll  plug  the  fust  gent  we  see,"  called  a  surly 
voice. 

Durade's  staccato  tones  succeeded  it.  "Did  you  see 
them?" 

312 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"We  heerd  them  gettin'  out  the  winder." 

Durade's  voice  rose  high  in  Spanish  curses.  Then  he 
called:  "Fresno — Mull — take  men — go  around  the  street. 
They  can't  get  away.  .  .  .  You,  Mex,  get  down  in 
there  with  the  gang." 

Lower  voices  answered,  questioning,  eager,  but  in 
distinct. 

"  Kill  him — bring  her  back — and  you  can  have  the  gold," 
shouted  Durade. 

Following  that  came  the  heavy  tramp  of  boots  and 
the  low  roar  of  angry  men. 

Hough  leaned  toward  Ancliffe.  "They've  got  us  penned 
in." 

"Yes.  But  it's  pretty  dark  here.  And  they'll  be  slow. 
You  watch  while  I  tear  a  hole  through  somewhere,"  replied 
Ancliffe. 

He  was  perfectly  cool  and  might  have  been  speaking  of 
some  casual  incident.  He  extinguished  his  cigarette, 
dropped  it,  then  put  on  his  gloves. 

Hough  loomed  tall  and  dark.  His  face  showed  pale 
in  the  shadow.  He  stood  with  his  elbows  stiff  against  his 
sides,  a  derringer  in  each  hand. 

"  I  wish  I  had  heavier  guns,"  he  said. 

Allie's  thrill  of  emotion  spent  itself  in  a  shudder  of 
realization.  Calmly  and  chivalrously  these  two  strangers 
had  taken  a  stand  against  her  enemies  and  with  a  few 
cool  words  and  actions  had  accepted  whatever  might 
betide. 

"I  must  tell  you — oh,  I  must!"  she  whispered,  with 
her  hand  on  Hough's  arm.  "I  heard  you  send  for  Neale 
arid  Larry  King.  ...  It  made  my  heart  stop!  .  .  . 
Neale — Warren  Neale  is  my  sweetheart.  See,  I  wear  his 
ring !  .  .  .  Reddy  King  is  my  dearest  friend — my  broth 
er!  ...  " 

Hough  bent  low  to  peer  into  Allie's  face — to  see  her 
ring.  Then  he  turned  to  Ancliffe. 

"How    things    work     out!  ...  I    always     suspected 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

what  was  wrong  with  Neale.  Now  I  know — after  seeing 
his  girl." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Ancliffe. 

"Well,  I'll  block  Durade's  gang.    Will  you  save  the  girl?" 

"Assuredly,"  answered  the  imperturbable  Englishman. 
"Where  shall  I  take  her?" 

"Where  can  she  be  safe?  The  troop  camp?  No,  too 
far.  .  .  .  Aha!  take  her  to  Stanton.  Tell  Stanton  the 
truth.  Stanton  will  hide  her.  Then  find  Neale  and  King." 

Hough  turned  to  Allie.  "I'm  glad  you  spoke — about 
Neale,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  curious  softness  in  his 
voice.  "I  owe  him  a  great  deal.  I  like  him.  .  .  .  An 
cliffe  will  get  you  out  of  here — and  safely  back  to  Neale." 

Allie  knew  somehow — from  something  in  his  tone,  his 
presence — that  he  would  never  leave  this  gloomy  in- 
closure.  She  heard  Ancliffe  ripping  a  board  off  the  wall 
or  fence,  and  that  sound  seemed  alarmingly  loud.  The 
voices  no  longer  were  heard  behind  the  canvas  house. 
The  wind  whipped  through  the  bare  framework.  Some 
where  at  a  distance  were  music  and  revelry.  Benton's 
night  roar  had  begun.  Over  all  seemed  to  hang  a  menac 
ing  and  ponderous  darkness. 

Suddenly  a  light  appeared  moving  slowly  from  the 
most  obscure  corner  of  the  square,  perhaps  fifty  paces 
distant. 

Hough  drew  Allie  closer  to  Ancliffe.  "Get  behind  me," 
he  whispered. 

A  sharp  ripping  and  splitting  of  wood  told  of  Ancliffe's 
progress;  also  it  located  the  fugitives  for  Durade's  gang. 
The  light  vanished;  quick  voices  rasped  out ;  then  stealthy 
feet  padded  over  the  boards. 

Allie  saw  or  imagined  she  saw  gliding  forms  black 
against  the  pale  gloom.  She  was  so  close  to  Ancliffe 
that  he  touched  her  as  he  worked.  Turning,  she  beheld 
a  ray  of  light  through  an  aperture  he  had  made. 

Suddenly  the  gloom  split  to  a  reddish  flare.  It  re 
vealed  dark  forms.  A  gun  cracked.  Allie  heard  the 

314 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

Aeavy  thud  of  a  bullet  against  the  wall.  Then  Hough 
shot.  His  derringer  made  a  small,  spiteful  report.  It 
was  followed  by  a  cry — a  groan.  Other  guns  cracked. 
Bullets  pattered  on  the  wood.  Allie  heard  the  spat  of  lead 
striking  Hough.  It  had  a  sickening  sound.  He  moved  as 
if  from  a  blow.  A  volley  followed  and  Allie  saw  the  bright 
flashes.  All  about  her  bullets  were  whistling  and  thudding. 
She  knew  with  a  keen  horror  every  time  Hough  was  struck 
Hoarse  yells  and  strangling  cries  mixed  with  the  diminishing 
shots. 

Then  Ancliffe  grasped  her  and  pushed  her  through  a 
vent  he  had  made.  Allie  crawled  backward  and  she 
could  see  Hough  still  standing  in  front.  It  seemed  that 
he  swayed.  Then  as  she  rose  further  view  was  cut  off. 
Although  she  had  not  looked  around,  she  was  aware  of  a 
dimly  lighted  storeroom.  Outside  the  shots  had  ceased. 
She  heard  something  heavy  fall  suddenly;  then  a  patter 
of  quick,  light  footsteps. 

Ajicliffe  essayed  to  get  through  the  opening  feet  first. 
It  was  a  tight  squeeze,  or  else  some  one  held  him  back. 
There  came  a  crashing  of  wood;  Ancliffe's  body  whirled 
in  the  aperture  and  he  struggled  violently.  Allie  heard 
hissing,  sibilant  Spanish  utterances.  She  stood  petrified, 
certain  that  Durade  had  attacked  Ancliffe.  Suddenly 
the  Englishman  crashed  through,  drawing  a  supple,  twist 
ing,  slender  man  with  him.  He  held  this  man  by  the 
throat  with  one  hand  and  by  the  wrist  with  the  other. 
Allie  recognized  Durade' s  Mexican  ally.  He  gripped  a 
knife  and  the  blade  was  bloody. 

Once  inside,  where  AnclifEe  could  move,  he  handled 
the  Mexican  with  deliberate  and  remorseless  ease.  Allie 
saw  him  twist  and  break  the  arm  which  held  the  knife. 
Not  that  sight,  but  the  eyes  of  the  Mexican  made  AlHo 
close  her  own.  When  she  opened  them,  at  a  touch, 
Ancliffr  stood  beside  her  and  the  Mexican  lay  quiver 
ing.  AnclifEe  held  the  bloody  knife ;  he  hid  it  under  his 
coat 

31* 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Come,"  he  said.    His  voice  seemed  thin. 

"But  Hough!    We  must— " 

Ancliffe's  strange  gesture  froze  Allie's  lips.  She  fol 
lowed  him — clung  close  to  him.  There  were  voices  near — 
and  persons.  All  seemed  to  fall  back  before  the  English 
man.  He  strode  on.  Indeed,  his  movements  appeared 
unnatural.  They  went  down  a  low  stairway,  out  into  the 
dark.  Lights  were  there  to  the  right,  and  hurrying  forms. 
Ancliffe  ran  with  her  in  the  other  direction.  Only  dim, 
pale  lamps  shone  through  tents.  Down  this  side  street  it 
was  quiet  and  dark.  Allie  stumbled,  would  have  fallen  but 
for  Ancliffe.  Yet  sometimes  he  stumbled,  too.  He  turned 
a  corner  and  proceeded  rapidly  toward  bright  lights. 
The  houses  loomed  big.  Down  that  way  many  people 
passed  to  and  fro.  Allie's  senses  recognized  a  new  sound — a 
confusion  of  music,  dancing,  hilarity,  all  distinct,  near  at 
hand.  She  could  scarcely  keep  up  with  Ancliffe.  He  did 
not  speak  nor  look  to  right  or  left. 

At  the  corner  of  a  large  house — a  long  structure  which 
sent  out  gleams  of  light — Ancliffe  opened  a  door  and  pulled 
Allie  into  a  hallway,  dark  near  at  hand,  but  brilliant  at 
the  other  end.  He  drew  her  along  this  passage,  striding 
slower  now  and  unsteadily.  He  turned  into  another 
hall  lighted  by  lamps.  Music  and  gaiety  seemed  to  sweep 
stunningly  into  Allie's  face.  But  Allie  saw  only  one 
person  there — a  negress.  As  Ancliffe  halted,  the  negress 
rose  from  her  seat.  She  was  frightened. 

"Call  Stanton— quick!"  he  panted.  He  thrust  gold  at 
her.  "Tell  no  one  else!" 

;  Then  he  opened  a  door,  pushed  Allie  into  a  handsomely 
furnished  parlor,  and,  closing  the  door,  staggered  to  a 
couch,  upon  which  he  fell.  His  face  wore  a  singular  look, 
remarkable  for  its  whiteness.  All  its  weary,  careless  in 
difference  had  vanished. 

As  he  lay  back  his  hands  loosed  their  hold  of  his  ^oat  and 
fell  away  all  bloody.  The  knife  slid  to  the  floor.  A  crim 
son  froth  flecked  his  lips. 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Oh — Heaven!     You   were — stabbed!"    gasped 
sinking  to  her  knees. 

"If  Stanton  doesn't  come  in  time — tell  her  what  hap 
pened — ask  her  to  fetch  Neale  to  you,"  he  said.  He 
spoke  with  extreme  difficulty  and  a  fluttering  told  of  blood 
in  his  throat. 

Allie  could  not  speak.  She  could  not  pray.  But  her 
sight  and  her  perception  were  abnormally  keen.  Ancliffe's 
strange,  clear  gaze  rested  upon  her,  and  it  seemed  to  Allie 
that  he  smiled,  not  with  lips  or  face,  but  in  spirit.  How 
strange  and  beautiful! 

Then  Allie  heard  a  rush  of  silk  at  the  door.  It  opened — 
closed.  A  woman  of  fair  face,  bare  of  arm  and  neck,  glitter 
ing  with  diamonds,  swept  into  the  parlor.  She  had  great, 
dark-blue  eyes  full  of  shadows  and  they  flashed  from 
Ancliffe  to  Allie  and  back  again. 

"What's  happened?  You're  pale  as  death!  .  .  . 
Ancliffe!  Your  hands — your  breast!  .  .  .  My  God!19 

She  bent  over  him.  "Stanton,  I've  been — cut  up — and 
Hough  is — dead." 

"Oh,  this  horrible  Benton!"  cried  the  woman. 

"Don't  faint.  .  .  .  Hear  me.  You  remember  we 
were  curious  about  a  girl — Durade  had  in  his  place.  This 
is  she — Allie  Lee.  She  is  innocent.  Durade  held  her  for 
revenge.  He  had  loved — then  hated  her  mother.  .  .  . 
Hough  won  all  Durade's  gold — and  then  the  girl.  .  .  . 
But  we  had  to  fight.  .  .  .  Stanton,  this  Allie  Lee  is 
Neale's  sweetheart.  .  .  .  He  believes  her  dead.  .  .  . 
You  hide  her — bring  Neale  to  her." 

Quickly  she  replied,  "I  promise  you,  Ancliffe,  I  promise, 
.  .  .  How  strange — what  you  tell !  .  .  .  But  not  strange 
for  Benton!  .  .  .  Ancliffe!  Speak  to  me! — Oh,  he  is 
going!" 

With  her  first  words  a  subtle  change  passed  over  An 
cliffe.  It  was  the  release  of  his  will.  His  whole  body  sank. 
Under  the  intense  whiteness  of  his  face  a  cold  gray  shade 
began  to  creep.  His  last  conscious  instant  spent  itself  in 

317 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

the  strange  gaze  Allie  had  felt  before,  and  now  she  had  a 
vague  perception  that  in  some  way  it  expressed  a  blessing 
and  a  deliverance.  The  instant  the  beautiful  light  turned 
inward,  as  if  to  illumine  the  darkness  of  his  soul,  she 
divined  what  he  had  once  been,  his  ruin,  his  secret  and 
eternal  remorse — and  the  chance  to  die  that  had  made  him 
great. 

So,  forgetful  of  the  other  beside  her,  Allie  Lee  watched 
Ancliffe,  sustained  by  a  nameless  spirit,  feeling  with 
tragic  pity  her  duty  as  a  woman — to  pray  for  him,  to  stay 
beside  him,  that  he  might  not  be  alone  when  he  died. 

And  while  she  watched,  with  the  fading  of  that  singular 
radiance,  there  returned  to  his  face  a  slow,  careless 
weariness. 

"He's  gone!"  murmured  Stanton,  rising.  A  dignity  had 
come  to  her.  "Dead!  And  we  knew  nothing  of  him — not 
his  real  name — nor  his  place.  .  .  .  But  even  Benton  could 
not  keep  him  from  dying  like  an  English  gentleman." 

She  took  Allie  by  the  hand,  led  her  out  of  the  parlor 
and  across  the  hall  into  a  bedroom.  Then  she  faced 
Allie,  wonderingly,  with  all  a  woman's  sympathy,  and  some 
thing  else  that  Allie  sensed  as  a  sweet  and  poignant  wist- 
fulness. 

"Are  you — Neale's  sweetheart?"  she  asked,  very  low. 

"Oh — please — find  him — for  me!"  sobbed  Allie. 

The  tenderness  in  this  woman's  voice  and  look  and 
touch  was  what  Allie  needed  more  than  anything,  and  it 
made  her  a  trembling  child.  How  strangely,  hesitatingly, 
with  closing  eyes,  this  woman  reached  to  fold  her  in  gentle 
arms.  What  a  tumult  Allie  felt  throbbing  in  the  full  breast 
where  she  laid  her  head. 

"Allie  Lee!  .  .  .  and  he  thinks  you  dead,"  she  mur 
mured,  brokenly.  "I  will  bring  him — to  you." 

When  she  released  Allie  years  and  shadows  no  longer 
showed  in  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  tear-wet  and  darken 
ing;  her  lips  were  tremulous.  At  that  moment  there  was 
something  beautiful  and  terrible  about  her. 

318 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

But  Allie  could  not  understand. 

"You  stay  here,"  she  said.  "Be  very  quiet  ...  I 
will  bring  Neale." 

Opening  the  door,  she  paused  on  the  threshold,  to  glance 
down  the  hall  first,  and  then  back  at  Allie.  Her  smile 
was  beautiful.  She  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  Allie 
heard  the  soft  swish  of  silk  dying  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

BEAUTY  STANTON  threw  a  cloak  over  her  bare 
shoulders  and,  hurriedly  leaving  the  house  by  the 
side  entrance,  she  stood  a  moment,  breathless  and  ex 
cited,  in  the  dark  and  windy  street. 

She  had  no  idea  why  she  halted  there,  for  she  wanted 
to  run.  But  the  instant  she  got  out  into  the  cool  night 
air  a  check  came  to  action  and  thought.  Strange  sensations 
poured  in  upon  her — the  darkness,  lonesome  and  weird; 
the  wailing  wind  with  its  weight  of  dust;  the  roar  of  Ben- 
ton's  main  thoroughfare;  and  the  low,  strange  murmur, 
neither  musical  nor  mirthful,  behind  her,  from  that  huge 
hall  shecalled  her  home.  Stranger  even  than  these  emotions 
were  the  swelling  and  aching  of  her  heart,  the  glow  and 
quiver  of  her  flesh,  thrill  on  thrill,  deep,  like  bursting  pangs 
of  joy  never  before  experienced,  the  physical  sense  of  a 
touch,  inexplicable  in  its  power. 

On  her  bare  breast  a  place  seemed  to  flush  and  throb  and 
glow.  "Ah!"  murmured  Beauty  Stanton.  "That  girl 
laid  her  face  here — over  my  heart!  What  was  I  to  do?" 
she  murmured.  "  Oh  yes — to  find  her  sweetheart — Neale !" 

Then  she  set  off  rapidly,  but  if  she  had  possessed  wings 
or  the  speed  of  the  wind  she  could  not  have  kept  pace  with 
her  thoughts. 

She  turned  the  corner  of  the  main  street  and  glided 
among  the  hurrying  throng.  Men  stood  in  groups,  talking 
excitedly.  She  gathered  that  there  had  been  fights.  More 
than  once  she  was  addressed  familiarly,  but  she  did  not 
hear  what  was  said.  The  wide  street  seemed  strange, 
dark,  dismal,  the  lights  yellow  and  flaring,  the  wind  bur- 

320 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

dened,  the  dark  tide  of  humanity  raw,  wild,  animal,  un 
stable.  Above  the  lights  and  the  throngs  hovered  a  shadow 
— not  the  mantle  of  night  nor  the  dark  desert  sky. 

Her  steps  took  familiar  ground,  yet  she  seemed  not  to 
know  this  Benton. 

"Once  I  was  like  Allie  Lee!"  she  whispered.  "Not  so 
many  years  ago." 

And  the  dark  tide  of  men,  the  hurry  and  din,  the  wind 
and  dust,  the  flickering  lights,  all  retreated  spectral-like 
to  the  background  of  a  rnind  returned  to  youth,  hope,  love, 
home.  She  saw  herself  at  eighteen — yes,  Beauty  Stanton 
even  then,  possessed  of  a  beauty  that  was  her  ruin;  at 
school,  the  favorite  of  a  host  of  boys  and  girls;  at  home, 
where  the  stately  oaks  were  hung  with  silver  moss  and  the 
old  Colonial  house  rang  with  song  of  sister  and  sport  of 
brother,  where  a  sweet-faced,  gentle-voiced  mother — 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Mother!"  And  at  that  word  the  dark  tide 
of  men  seemed  to  rise  and  swell  at  her,  to  trample  her 
sacred  memory  as  inevitably  and  brutally  as  it  had  used 
her  body. 

Only  the  piercing  pang  of  that  memory  remained  with 
Beauty  Stanton.  She  was  a  part  of  Benton.  She  was 
treading  the  loose  board-walk  of  the  great  and  vile  con 
struction  camp.  She  might  draw  back  from  leer  and 
touch,  but  none  the  less  was  she  there,  a  piece  of  this  dark, 
bold,  obscure  life.  She  was  a  cog  in  the  wheel,  a  grain  of 
dust  in  the  whirlwind,  a  morsel  of  flesh  and  blood  for  the 
hungry  maw  of  a  wild  and  passing  monster  of  progress. 

Her  hurried  steps  carried  her  on  with  her  errand.  Neale ! 
She  knew  where  to  find  him.  Often  she  had  watched  him 
play,  always  regretfully,  conscious  that  he  did  not  fit 
there.  His  indifference  had  baffled  her  as  it  had  piqued  her 
professional  vanity.  Men  had  never  been  indifferent  to 
her;  she  had  seen  them  fight  for  her  mocking  smiles. 
But  Neale!  He  had  been  stone  to  her  charm,  yet  kind, 
gracious,  deferential.  Always  she  had  felt  strangely  shamed 
when  he  stood  bareheaded  before  her.  Beauty  Stanton 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

had  foregone  respect.  Yet  respect  TV  as  what  she  yearned 
for.  The  instincts  of  her  girlhood,  surviving,  made  a 
whited  sepulcher  of  her  present  life.  She  could  not  bear 
Neale's  indifference  and  she  had  failed  to  change  it.  Her 
infatuation,  born  of  that  hot-bed  of  Benton  life,  had 
beaten  and  burned  itself  to  destruction  against  a  higher 
and  better  love — the  only  love  of  her  womanhood.  She 
would  have  slaved  for  him.  But  he  had  passed  her  by, 
absorbed  with  his  own  secret,  working  toward  some  fateful 
destiny,  lost,  perhaps,  like  all  the  others  there. 

And  now  she  learned  that  the  mystery  of  him — his 
secret — was  the  same  old  agony  of  love  that  sent  so  many 
on  endless,  restless  roads — Allie  Lee!  and  he  believed  her 
dead! 

After  all  the  bitterness,  life  had  moments  of  sweetest 
joy.  Fate  was  being  a  little  kind  to  her — Beauty  Stanton. 
It  would  be  from  her  lips  Neale  would  hear  that  Allie  Lee 
was  alive — innocent — unharmed — faithful  to  him — wait 
ing  for  him.  Beauty  Stanton's  soul  seemed  to  soar  with 
the  realization  of  how  that  news  would  uplift  Neale,  craze 
him  with  happiness,  change  his  life,  save  him.  He  was 
going  to  hear  the  blessed  tidings  from  a  woman  whom  he 
had  scorned.  Always  afterward,  then,  he  would  think  of 
Beauty  Stanton  with  a  grateful  heart.  She  was  to  be  the 
instrument  of  his  salvation.  Hough  and  Ancliffe  had 
died  to  save  Allie  Lee  from  the  vile  clutch  of  Benton;  but 
to  Beauty  Stanton,  the  woman  of  ill-fame,  had  been  given 
the  power.  She  gloried  in  it.  Allie  Lee  was  safely  hidden 
in  her  house.  Those  tigers  of  Durade's,  on  the  scent  of 
gold,  would  tear  down  all  places  in  Benton  before  they 
would  dare  to  attack  her  house.  The  iniquity  of  her  es 
tablishment  furnished  a  haven  for  the  body  and  life  and 
soul  of  innocent  Allie  Lee.  Beauty  Stanton  marveled 
at  the  strange  ways  of  life.  If  she  could  have  prayed,  if 
she  had  ever  dared  to  hope  for  some  splendid  duty,  some 
atonement  to  soften  the  dark,  grim  ending  of  her  dark 
career,  it  would  not  have  been  for  so  much  as  fate  had 

322 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

now  dealt  to  her.  She  was  overwhelmed  with  her  oppor 
tunity. 

All  at  once  she  reached  the  end  of  the  street.  On  each 
side  the  wall  of  lighted  tents  and  houses  ceased.  Had  she 
missed  her  way — gone  down  a  side  street  to  the  edge  of 
the  desert?  No.  The  rows  of  lights  behind  assured  her 
this  was  the  main  street.  Yet  she  was  far  from  the  rail 
road  station.  The  crowds  of  men  hurried  by,  as  always. 
Before  her  reached  a  leveled  space,  dimly  lighted,  full  of 
moving  objects,  and  noise  of  hammers  and  wagons,  and 
harsh  voices.  Then  suddenly  she  remembered. 

Benton  was  being  evacuated.  Tents  and  houses  were 
being  taken  down  and  loaded  on  trains  to  be  hauled  to 
the  next  construction  camp.  Benton's  day  was  done! 
This  was  the  last  night.  She  had  forgotten  that  the 
proprietor  of  her  hall,  from  whom  she  rented  it,  had  told 
her  that  early  on  the  morrow  he  would  take  it  down  sec 
tion  by  section,  load  it  on  the  train,  and  put  it  together 
again  for  her  in  the  next  town.  In  forty-eight  hours  Benton 
would  be  a  waste  place  of  board  floors,  naked  frames,  debris 
and  sand,  ready  to  be  reclaimed  by  the  desert.  It  would  be 
gone  like  a  hideous  nightmare,  and  no  man  would  believe 
what  had  happened  there. 

The  gambling-hell  where  she  had  expected  to  find  Neale 
had  vanished,  in  a  few  hours,  as  if  by  magic.  Beauty 
Stanton  retraced  her  steps.  She  would  find  Neale  in  one 
of  the  other  places — the  Big  Tent,  perhaps. 

This  hall  was  unusually  crowded,  and  the  scene  had  the 
number  of  men,  though  not  the  women  and  the  hilarity 
and  the  gold,  that  was  characteristic  of  pay-day  in  Benton. 
All  the  tables  in  the  gambling-room  were  occupied. 

Beauty  Stanton  stepped  into  this  crowded  room,  her 
golden  head  uncovered,  white  and  rapt  and  strangely  dark- 
eyed,  with  all  the  beauty  of  her  girlhood  returned,  and 
added  to  it  that  of  a  woman  transformed,  supreme  in  her 
crowning  hour.  As  a  bad  woman,  infatuated  and  piqued, 
she  had  failed  to  allure  Neale  to  baseness;  now  as  a  good 

323 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

woman,  with  pure  motive,  she  would  win  his  friendship, 
Aiis  eternal  gratitude. 

Stanton  had  always  been  a  target  for  eyes,  yet  never  as 
now,  when  she  drew  every  gaze  like  a  dazzling  light  in  a 
dark  room. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Neale  she  forgot  every  one  else  in 
that  hall.  He  was  gambling.  He  did  not  look  up.  His 
brow  was  somber  and  dark.  She  approached — stood  be 
hind  him.  Some  of  the  players  spoke  to  her,  familiarly, 
as  was  her  bitter  due.  Then  Neale  turned  apparently  to 
bow  with  his  old  courtesy.  Thrill  on  thrill  coursed  over 
her.  Always  he  had  showed  her  respect,  deference. 

Her  heart  was  full.  She  had  never  before  enjoyed  a 
moment  like  this.  She  was  about  to  separate  him  from  the' 
baneful  and  pernicious  life  of  the  camps — to  tender  him' 
a  gift  of  unutterable  happiness — to  give  all  of  him  back  to 
the  work  of  the  great  railroad. 

She  put  a  trembling  hand  on  his  shoulder — bent  over 
him.  "Neale — come  with  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Yes!  Yesi"  she  returned,  her  voice  thrilling  with 
emotion. 

Wearily,  with  patient  annoyance,  he  laid  down  his  cards 
and  looked  up.  His  dark  eyes  held  faint  surprise  and 
something  that  she  thought  might  be  pity. 

"Miss  Stanton — pardon  me — but  please  understand — 
No!" 

Then  he  turned  and,  picking  up  his  cards,  resumed  the 
game. 

Beauty  Stanton  suffered  a  sudden  vague  check.  It 
was  as  if  a  cold  thought  was  trying  to  enter  a  warm  and 
glowing  mind.  She  found  speech  difficult.  She  could  not 
get  off  the  track  of  her  emotional  flight.  Her  woman's 
wit,  tact,  knowledge  of  men,  would  not  operate. 

"Neale!  .  .  .  Come  with — me!"  she  cried,  brokenly. 
"There's—" 

Some  man  laughed  coarsely.  That  did  not  mean  any- 

324 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  Stanton  until  she  saw  how  it  affected  Neale.    His 
face  flushed  red  and  his  hands  clenched  the  cards. 

"Say,  Neale,"  spoke  up  this  brutal  gamester,  with  a 
sneer,  "  never  mind  us.  Go  along  with  your  lady  friend.  .  .  . 
You're  ahead  of  the  game — as  I  reckon  she  sees." 

Neale  threw  the  cards  in  the  man's  face;  then,  rising, 
he  bent  over  to  slap  him  so  violently  as  to  knock  him  off 
his  chair. 

The  crash  stilled  the  room.    Every  man  turned  to  watch. 

Neale  stood  up,  his  right  arm  down,  menacingly.  The 
gambler  arose,  cursing,  but  made  no  move  to  draw  a  weapon. 

Beauty  Stanton  could  not,  to  save  her  life,  speak  the 
words  she  wanted  to  say.  Something  impeding,  totally 
unexpected,  seemed  to  have  arisen. 

"Neale — come  with — me!"  was  all  she  could  say. 

"No!"  he  declared,  vehemently,  with  a  gesture  of  dis 
gust  and  anger. 

That,  following  the  coarse  implication  of  the  gambler, 
conveyed  to  Stanton  what  all  these  men  imagined.  The 
fools!  The  fools!  A  hot  vibrating  change  occurred  in  her 
emotion,  but  she  controlled  it.  Neale  turned  his  back  upon 
her.  The  crowd  saw  and  many  laughed.  Stanton  felt 
the  sting  of  her  pride,  the  leap  of  her  blood.  She  was 
misunderstood,  but  what  was  that  to  her?  As  Neale 
stepped  away  she  caught  his  arm — held  him  while  she 
tried  to  get  close  to  him  so  she  could  whisper.  He  shook 
her  off.  His  face  was  black  with  anger.  He  held  up  one 
hand  in  a  gesture  that  any  woman  would  have  understood 
and  hated.  It  acted  powerfully  upon  Beauty  Stanton. 
Neale  believed  she  was  importuning  him.  To  him  her  look, 
whisper,  touch  had  meant  only  the  same  as  to  these  coarse 
human  animals  gaping  and  grinning  as  they  listened.  The 
sweetest  and  best  and  most  exalted  moment  she  had  ever 
known  was  being  made  bitter  as  gall,  sickening,  hateful. 
She  must  speak  openly,  she  must  make  him  understand. 

"Allie  Lee!  .  .  .  At  my  house!"  burst  out  Stanton,  and 
then,  as  if  struck  by  lightning  she  grew  cold,  stiff-lipped. 

3*5 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

The  change  in  Neale  was  swift,  terrible.  Not  compre 
hension,  but  passion  transformed  him  into  a  gray-faced 
man,  amazed,  furious,  agonized,  acting  in  seeming  righteous 
and  passionate  repudiation  of  a  sacrilege. 

" !"     His  voice  hurled  out  a  heinous  name,  the 

one  epithet  that  could  inflame  and  burn  and  curl  Beauty 
Stanton's  soul  into  hellish  revolt.  Gray  as  ashes,  fire-eyed, 
he  appeared  about  to  kill  her.  He  struck  her — hard — across 
the  mouth. 

"Don't  breathe  that  namel" 

Beauty  Stanton's  fear  suddenly  broke.  Blindly  she 
ran  out  into  the  street.  She  fell  once — jostled  against  a 
rail.  The  lights  blurred;  the  street  seemed  wavering; 
the  noise  about  her  filtered  through  deadened  ears;  the 
stalking  figures  before  her  were  indistinct  and  unreal. 

"He  struck  me!    He  called  me !"   she  gasped. 

And  the  exaltation  of  the  last  hour  vanished  as  if  it 
had  never  been.      All  the  passion  of  her  stained  and  evil 
years  leaped  into  ascendency.     "Hell — hell!     I'll  have  him 
knifed — I'll  see  him  dying!     I'll  wet  my  hands  in  his  blood 
I'll  spit  in  his  face  as  he  dies!" 

So  she  gasped  out,  staggering  along  the  street  toward  her 
house.  There  is  no  flame  of  hate  so  sudden  and  terrible 
and  intense  as  that  of  the  lost  woman  Beauty  Stanton's 
blood  had  turned  to  vitriol.  Men  had  wronged  her,  ruined 
her,  dragged  her  down  into  the  mire.  One  by  one,  during 
her  dark  career,  the  long  procession  of  men  she  had  known 
had  each  taken  something  of  the  good  and  the  virtuous 
in  her,  only  to  leave  behind  something  evil  in  exchange. 
She  was  what  they  had  made  her.  Her  soul  was  a  bottom 
less  gulf,  black  and  bitter  as  the  Dead  Sea.  Her  heart  was 
a  volcano,  seething,  turgid,  full  of  contending  firesT  Her 
body  was  a  receptacle  into  which  Benton  had  poured  its 
dregs.  The  weight  of  all  the  iron  and  stone  used  in  the 
construction  of  the  great  railroad  was  the  burden  upon 
her  shoulders.  These  dark  streams  of  humanity  passing 
her  in  the  street,  these  beasts  of  men,  these  hairy-breasted 

326 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

toilers,  had  found  in  her  and  her  kind  the  strength  or  the 
incentive  to  endure,  to  build,  to  go  on.  And  one  of  them, 
stupid,  selfish,  merciless,  a  man  whom  she  had  really 
loved,  who  could  have  made  her  better,  to  whom  she  had 
gone  with  only  hope  for  him  and  unselfish  abnegation  for 
herself — he  had  put  a  vile  interpretation  upon  her  appeal, 
he  had  struck  her  before  a  callous  crowd,  he  had  called  her 
the  name  for  which  there  was  no  pardon  from  her  class,  a 
name  that  evoked  all  the  furies  and  the  powers  of  hell. 

"  Oh,  to  cut  him — to  torture  him — to  burn  him  alive.  .  .  . 
But  it  would  not  be  enough ! "  she  panted. 

And  into  the  mind  that  had  been  lately  fixed  in  happy 
consciousness  of  her  power  of  good  there  flashed  a  thousand 
scintillating,  corruscating  gleams  of  evil  thought.  And  then, 
came  a  crowning  one,  an  inspiration  straight  from  hell. 

"By  God!  I'll  make  of  Allie  Lee  the  thing  I  am!  The 
thing  he  struck — the  thing  he  named!" 

The  woman  in  Beauty  Stanton  ceased  to  be.  All  that 
breathed,  in  that  hour,  was  what  men  had  made  her. 
Revenge,  only  a  word!  Murder,  nothing!  Life,  an  im 
placable,  inexplicable,  impossible  flux  and  reflux  of  human 
passion!  Reason,  intelligence,  nobility,  love,  womanhood, 
motherhood — all  the  heritage  of  her  sex — had  been  warped 
by  false  and  abnormal  and  terrible  strains  upon  her  physical 
and  emotional  life.  No  tigress,  no  cannibal,  no  savage, 
no  man,  no  living  creature  except  a  woman  of  race  who 
knew  how  far  she  had  fallen  could  have  been  capable  of 
Beauty  Stanton's  deadly  and  immutable  passion  to  destroy. 
Thus  life  and  nature  avenged  her.  Her  hate  was  im 
measurable.  She  who  could  have  walked  naked  and 
smiling  down  the  streets  of  Benton  or  out  upon  the  barren 
desert  to  die  for  the  man  she  loved  had  in  her  the  in 
conceivable  and  mysterious  passion  of  the  fallen  woman; 
she  could  become  a  flame,  a  scourge,  a  fatal  wind,  a  dev 
astation.  She  was  fire  to  man;  to  her  own  sex,  ice. 

Stanton  reached  her  house  and  entered.  Festivities  in 
honor  of  the  last  night  of  Benton  were  already  riotously 

327 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

in  order.  She  placed  herself  well  back  in  the  shadow  and 
watched  the  wide  door. 

"The  first  man  who  enters  I'll  give  him  this  key!"  she 
hissed. 

She  was  unsteady  on  her  feet.  All  her  frame  quivered. 
The  lights  in  the  hall  seemed  to  have  a  reddish  tinge.  She 
watched.  Several  men  passed  out.  Then  a  tall,  stalking 
form  appeared,  entering. 

A  ball  of  fire  in  Stanton's  breast  leaped  and  burst. 
She  had  recognized  in  that  entering  form  the  wildest,  the 
most  violent,  and  the  most  dangerous  man  in  Benton — 
Larry  Red  King. 

Stanton  stepped  forward  and  for  the  first  time  in  the 
cowboy's  presence  she  did  not  experience  that  singular 
chill  of  gloom  which  he  was  wont  to  inspire  in  her. 

Her  eyes  gloated  over  King.  Tall,  lean,  graceful,  easy, 
with  his  flushed;  ruddy  face  and  his  flashing  blue  eyes  and 
the  upstanding  red  hair,  he  looked  exactly  what  he  was — 
,  a  handsome  red  devil,  fearing  no  man  or  thing,  hell-bent  in 
his  cool,  reckless  wildness. 

He  appeared  to  be  half-drunk.  Stanton  was  trained  to 
read  the  faces  of  men  who  entered  there;  and  what  she 
saw  in  King's  added  the  last  and  crowning  throb  of  joy 
to  her  hate.  If  she  had  been  given  her  pick  of  the  devils 
in  Benton  she  would  have  selected  this  stalking,  gun- 
packing  cowboy. 

"Larry,  I've  a  new  girl  here,"  she  said.    "Come." 

"Evenin',  Miss— Stanton,"  he  drawled.  He  puffed 
slightly,  after  the  manner  of  men  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  and  a  wicked,  boyish,  heated  smile  crossed  his 
face. 

She  led  him  easily.  But  his  heavy  gun  bumped  against 
her,  giving  her  little  cold  shudders.  The  passage  opened 
into  a  wide  room,  which  in  turn  opened  into  her  dancing- 
hall.  She  saw  strange,  eager,  dark  faces  among  the  men 
present,  but  in  her  excitement  she  did  not  note  them 
particularly.  She  led  Larry  across  the  wide  room,  up  a 

3*8 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

stairway  to  another  hall,  and  down  this  to  the  corner  of 
an  intersecting  passageway. 

"Take — this — key!"  she  whispered.  Her  hand  shook. 
She  felt  herself  to  be  a  black  and  monstrous  creature.  All 
of  Benton  seemed  driving  her.  She  was  another  woman. 
This  was  her  fling  at  a  rotten  world,  her  slap  in  Neale's 
face.  But  she  could  not  speak  again;  her  lips  failed.  She 
pointed  to  a  door. 

She  waited  long  enough  to  see  the  stalking,  graceful  cow 
boy  halt  in  front  of  the  right  door.  Then  she  fled. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

FOR   many  moments   after   the    beautiful   barearmed 
woman  closed  and  locked  the  door  Allie  Lee  sat  in 
ecstasy,  in  trembling  anticipation  of  Neale. 

Gradually,  however,  in  intervals  of  happy  mind-wander 
ings,  other  thoughts  intruded.  This  little  bedroom 
affected  her  singularly  and  she  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  the  fact.  It  did  not  seem  that  she  was  actually  afraid 
to  be  there,  for  she  was  glad.  Fear  of  Durade  and  his  gang 
recurred,  but  she  believed  that  the  time  of  her  deliverance 
,was  close  at  hand.  Possibly  Durade,  with  some  of  his 
men,  had  been  killed  in  the  fight  with  Hough.  Then  she 
remembered  having  heard  the  Spaniard  order  Fresno  and 
Mull  to  go  round  by  the  street.  They  must  be  on  her  trail 
at  this  very  moment.  Ancliffe  had  been  seen,  and  not  much 
time  could  elapse  before  her  whereabouts  would  be  dis 
covered.  But  Allie  bore  up  bravely.  She  was  in  the 
thick  of  grim  and  bloody  and  horrible  reality.  Those 
brave  men,  strangers  to  her,  had  looked  into  her  face, 
questioned  her,  then  had  died  for  her.  It  was  all  so  un 
believable.  In  another  room,  close  to  her,  lay  Ancliffe, 
dead.  Allie  tried  not  to  think  of  him;  of  the  remorseless 
way  in  which  he  had  killed  the  Mexican;  of  the  contrast 
between  this  action  and  his  gentle  voice  and  manner. 
She  tried  not  to  think  of  the  gambler  Hough — the  cold 
iron  cast  of  his  face  as  he  won  Durade's  gold,  the  strange, 
intent  look  which  he  gave  her  a  moment  before  the  attack. 
There  was  something  magnificent  in  Ancliffe's  bringing 
her  to  a  refuge  while  he  was  dying;  there  was  something 
magnificent  in  Hough's  standing  off  the  gang.  Allie  divined 

330 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

that  through  her  these  two  men  had  fought  and  died  for 
something  in  themselves  as  well  as  for  her  honor  and 
life. 

The  little  room  seemed  a  refuge  for  Allie,  yet  it  was 
oppressive,  as  had  been  the  atmosphere  of  the  parlor 
where  Ancliffe  lay.  But  this  oppressiveness  was  not 
death.  Allie  had  become  familiar  with  death  near  at  hand. 
This  refuge  made  her  flesh  creep. 

The  room  was  not  the  home  of  any  one — it  was  not  in 
habited,  it  was  not  livable.  Yet  it  contained  the  same 
kind  of  furniture  Durade  had  bought  for  her  and  it  was 
clean  and  comfortable.  Still,  Allie  shrank  from  touching 
anything.  Through  the  walls  came  the  low,  strange,  dis 
cordant  din  to  which  she  had  become  accustomed — an 
intense,  compelling  blend  of  music,  song,  voice,  and  step 
actuated  by  one  spirit.  Then  at  times  she  imagined 
she  heard  distant  hammering  and  the  slap  of  a  falling 
board. 

Probably  Allie  had  not  stayed  in  this  room  many  moments 
when  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had  been  there  hours. 
Surely  the  woman  would  return  soon  with  Neale.  And 
the  very  thought  drove  all  else  out  of  her  mind,  leaving 
her  palpitating  with  hope,  sick  with  longing. 

Footsteps  outside  distracted  her  from  the  nervous, 
dreamy  mood.  Some  one  was  coming  along  the  hall. 
Her  heart  gave  a  wild  bound— then  sank.  The  steps 
passed  by  her  door.  She  heard  the  thick,  maudlin  voice 
of  a  man  and  the  hollow,  trilling  laugh  of  a  girl. 

Allie's  legs  began  to  grow  weak  under  her.  The  strain, 
the  suspense,  the  longing  grew  to  be  too  much  for  her 
and  occasioned  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  She  had  let  her 
hopes  carry  her  too  high. 

Suddenly  the  door-handle  rattled  and  turned.  Allie 
was  brought  to  a  stifling  expectancy,  motionless  in  the 
center  of  the  room.  Some  one  was  outside  at  the  door. 
Could  it  be  Neale?  It  must  be!  Her  sensitive  ears  caught 
short,  puffing  breaths — then  the  click  of  a  key  in  the 

33i 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

lock.  Allie  stood  there  in  an  anguish  of  suspense,  with  the 
lift  of  her  heart  almost  suffocating  her.  Like  a  leaf  in 
the  wind  she  quivered. 

Whoever  was  out  there  fumbled  at  the  key.  Then  the 
lock  rasped,  the  handle  turned,  the  door  opened.  A  tall 
man  swaggered  in,  with  head  bent  sideways,  his  hand  re 
moving  the  key  from  the  lock.  Before  he  saw  Allie  he 
closed  the  door.  With  that  he  faced  around. 

Allie  recognized  the  red  face,  the  flashing  eyes,  the  flam 
ing  hair. 

" Larry!"  she  cried,  with  bursting  heart. 

She  took  a  quick  step,  ready  to  leap  into  his  arms,  but 
his  violent  start  checked  her.  Larry  staggered  back- 
put  a  hand  out.  His  face  was  heated  and  flushed  as  Allie 
had  never  seen  it.  A  stupid  surprise  showed  there.  Slowly 
his  hand  moved  up  to  cross  his  lips,  to  brush  through 
his  red  hair;  then  with  swifter  movement  it  swept  back 
to  feel  the  door,  as  if  he  wanted  the  touch  of  tangible 
things. 

"Reckon  I'm  seein'  'em  again!"  he  muttered  to  him 
self. 

"Oh,  Larry — I'm  Allie  Lee!"  she  cried,  holding  out  her 
hands. 

She  saw  the  color  fade  out  of  his  face.  A  shock  seemed 
to  go  over  his  body.  He  took  a  couple  of  dragging  strides 
toward  her.  His  eyes  had  the  gaze  of  a  man  who  did  not 
believe  what  he  saw.  The  hand  he  reached  out  shook. 

"I'm  no  ghost!  Larry,  don't — you — know  me?"  she 
faltered. 

Indeed  he  must  have  thought  her  a  phantom.  Great, 
clammy  drops  stood  out  upon  his  brow. 

" Dear  old — redhead!"  she  whispered,  brokenly,  with  a 
smile  of  agony  and  joy.  He  would  know  her  when  she 
spoke  that  way — called  him  the  name  she  had  tormented 
him  with — the  name  no  one  else  would  have  dared  to 
use. 

Then  she  saw  he  believed  in  her  reality.    His  lace  began 

332 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

to  work.  She  threw  her  arms  about  him — she  gave  up  to 
a  frenzy  of  long-deferred  happiness.  Where  Larry  was 
there  would  Neale  be. 

"Allie — it  ain't — you?"  he  asked,  hoarsely,  as  he  hugged 
her  close. 

"Oh,  Larry — yes — yes — and  I'll  die  of  joy!"  she  whis 
pered. 

"  Then  you  shore  ain't — daid?"  he  went  on,  incredulously. 

How  sweet  to  Allie  was  the  old  familiar  Southern  drawl! 

"Dead?  Never.  .  .  .  Why,  I've  kissed  you!  .  .  .  and 
you  haven't  kissed  me  back." 

She  felt  his  breast  heave  as  he  lifted  her  off  her  feet  to 
kiss  her  awkwardly,  boyishly. 

"Shore — the  world's  comin'  to  an  end!  .  .  .  But  meb- 
be  I'm  only  drunk!" 

He  held  her  close,  towering  over  her,  while  he  gazed 
around  him  and  down  at  her,  shaking  his  head,  muttering 
again  in  bewilderment. 

"Reddy  dear — where,  oh,  where  is  Neale?"  she  breathed, 
all  her  heart  in  her  voice. 

As  he  released  her  Allie  felt  a  difference.  His  whole 
body  seemed  to  gather,  to  harden,  then  vibrate,  as  if  he 
had  been  stung. 

"My  Gawd!"  he  whispered,  in  hoarse  accents  of  amaze 
and  horror.  "  Is  it  you — Allie — here?" 

"Of  course  it's  I,"  replied  Allie,  blankly. 

His  face  turned  white  to  the  lips. 

"Reddy,  what  in  the  world  is  wrong?"  she  gasped,  be 
ginning  to  wring  her  hands. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  at  her.  With  rude,  iron  grasp  he 
forced  her  back,  under  the  light,  and  fixed  piercing  eyes 
upon  hers.  He  bent  closer.  Allie  was  frightened,  yet 
fascinated.  His  gaze  hurt  with  its  intensity,  its  strange, 
penetrating  power.  Allie  could  not  bear  it. 

"Allie,  look  at  me,"  he  said,  low  and  hard.  "Per  I 
reckon  you  mayn't  hev  very  long  to  live!" 

Allie  struggled  weakly.  He  looked  so  gray,  grim,  and 

333 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

terrible.  But  she  could  resist  neither  his  strength  nor  his 
spirit.  She  lay  quiet  and  met  the  clear,  strange  fire  of  his 
eyes.  In  a  few  swift  moments  he  had  changed  utterly. 

"Larry — aren't — you — drunk?"  she  faltered. 

"I  was,  but  now  I'm  sober.  .   .   .  Girl,  kiss  me  again!" 

In  wonder  and  fear  Allie  complied,  now  flushing  scarlet. 

"I — I  was  never  so  happy,"  she  whispered.  "But 
Larry — you — you  frighten  me.  .  .  .  I — " 

"Happy!"  ejaculated  Larry.  Then  he  let  her  go  and 
stood  up,  breathing  hard.  "There's  a  hell  of  a  lie  heah 
somewheres — but  it  ain't  in  you." 

"Larry,  talk  sense.  I'm  weak  from  long  waiting.  Oh, 
tell  me  of  Neale!" 

What  a  strange,  curious,  incomprehensible  glance  he 
gave  her! 

"Allie — Neale's  heah  in  Benton.  I  can  take  you  to  him 
in  ten  minutes.  Do  you  want  me  to  ?' ' 

"Want  you  to!  .  .  .  Reddy!  I'll  die  if  you  don't 
take  me — at  once!"  she  cried,  in  anguish. 

Again  Larry  loomed  over  her.  This  time  he  took  her 
hands.  *'How  long  had  you  been  heah — before  I  came?" 
he  asked. 

"Half  an  hour,  perhaps;  maybe  less.  But  it  seemed 
long." 

"Do  you — know — what  kind  of  a  house  you're  in — this 
heah  room — what  it  means?"  he  went  on,  very  low  and 
huskily. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  replied,  instantly,  with  sudden 
curiosity.  Questions  and  explanations  rushed  to  her  lips. 
But  this  strangely  acting  Larry  dominated  her. 

"No  other  man — came  in  heah?    I — was  the  first?" 

"Yes." 

Then  Larry  King  seemed  to  wrestle  with  himself — with 
the  hold  drink  had  upon  him — with  that  dark  and  sinister 
oppression  so  thick  in  the  room.  Allie  thrilled  to  see  his 
face  grow  soft  and  light  up  with  the  smile  she  remembered. 
How  strange  to  feel  in  Larry  King  a  spirit  of  gladness, 

334 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

of  gratefulness  for  something  beyond  her  understanding! 
Again  he  drew  her  close.  And  Allie,  keen  to  read  and  feel 
him,  wondered  why  he  seemed  to  want  to  hide  the  sight  of 
his  face. 

"Wai — I  reckon — I  was  nigh  onto  bein'  drunk,"  he  said, 
haltingly.  "  Shore  is  a  bad  habit  of  mine — Allie.  .  .  . 
Makes  me  think  a  lot  of — guff — jest  the  same  as  it  makes 
me  see  snakes — an'  things.  .  .  .  I'll  quit  drinkin',  Allie. 
.  .  .  Never  will  touch  liquor  again — now  if  you'll  jest  for 
give." 

He  spoke  gently,  huskily,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  and  he 
broke  off  completely. 

"  Forgive !  Larry,  boy,  there's  nothing  to  forgive — except 
your  not  hurrying  me  to — to  him!" 

She  felt  the  same  violent  start  in  him.  He  held  her  a 
moment  longer.  Then,  when  he  let  go  of  her  and  stepped 
back  Allie  saw  the  cowboy  as  of  old,  cool  and  easy,  yet  some 
how  menacing,  as  he  had  been  that  day  the  strangers  rode 
into  Slingerland's  camp. 

vj  Allie — thet  woman  Stanton  locked  you  in  heah?" 
queried  Larry. 

"Yes.    Then  she— " 

Larry's  quick  gesture  enjoined  silence.  Stealthy  steps 
sounded  out  in  the  hall.  They  revived  Allie's  fear  of 
Durade  and  his  men.  It  struck  her  suddenly  that  Larry 
must  be  ignorant  of  the  circumstances  that  had  placed  her 
there. 

The  cowboy  unlocked  the  door — peeped  out.  As  he 
turned,  how  clear  and  cold  his  blue  eyes  flashed! 

"I'll  get  you  out  of  heah,"  he  whispered.    "Come." 

They  went  out.  The  passage  was  empty.  Allie  clung 
closely  to  him.  At  the  corner,  where  the  halls  met,  he 
halted  to  listen.  Only  the  low  hum  of  voices  came  up. 

"  Larry,  I  must  tell  you,"  whispered  Allie.  "  Durade  and 
his  gang  are  after  me.  Fresno — Mull — Black — Dayss — you 
know  them?" 

"I — reckon,"  he  replied,  swallowing  hard.  "My  Gawdl 

335 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

you  poor  little  girl!  With  that  gang  after  you!  An' 
Stanton !  I  see  all  now.  .  .  .  She  says  to  me,  '  Larry,  I've 
a  new  girl  heah'.  .  .  .  Wai,  Beauty  Stanton,  thet  was  a 
bad  deal  for  you — damn  your  soul!" 

Trembling,  Allie  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  again  the 
cowboy  motioned  her  to  be  quiet.  He  need  not  have 
done  it,  for  he  suddenly  seemed  terrible,  wild,  deadly, 
rendering  her  mute. 

"Allie,  if  I  call  to  you,  duck  behind  me  an'  hold  on  to 
me.  I'll  take  you  out  of  heah." 

Then  he  put  her  on  his  left  side  and  led  her  down  the 
right-hand  passage  toward  the  wide  room  Allie  remem 
bered.  She  looked  on  into  the  dance-hall.  Larry  did  not 
hurry.  He  sauntered  carelessly,  yet  Allie  felt  how  intense 
he  was.  They  reached  the  head  of  the  stairway.  The 
room  was  full  of  men  and  girls.  The  woman  Stanton  was 
there  and,  wheeling,  she  uttered  a  cry  that  startled  Allie. 
Was  this  white,  glaring-eyed,  drawn-faced  woman  the 
one  who  had  gone  for  Neale?  Allie  began  to  shake.  She 
saw  and  heard  with  startling  distinctness.  The  woman's 
cry  had  turned  every  face  toward  the  stairway,  and  the 
buzz  of  voices  ceased. 

Stanton  ran  to  the  stairway,  started  up,  and  halted, 
raising  a  white  arm  in  passionate  gesture. 

"Where  are  you  taking  that  girl?"  she  called,  stridently. 

Larry  stepped  down,  drawing  Allie  with  him.  "I'm 
takin'  her  to  Neale." 

Stanton  shrieked  and  waved  her  arms.  Indeed,  she 
seemed  another  woman  from  the  one  upon  whose  breast 
Allie  had  laid  her  head  just  a  little  while  before. 

"No,  you  won't  take  her  to  Neale!"  cried  Stanton. 

The  cowboy  stepped  down  slowly,  guardedly,  but  he 
kept  on.  Allie  saw  men  run  out  of  the  crowded  dance- 
hall  into  the  open  space  behind  Stanton.  Dark,  hateful, 
well-remembered  faces  of  Fresno — Mull — Black!  Allie 
pressed  the  cowboy's  arm  to  warn  him,  and  he,  letting 
go  of  her,  appeared  to  motion  her  behind  him. 

336 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Stanton!  Get  out  of  my  way!"  yelled  Larry.  His 
voice  rang  with  a  wild,  ruthless  note;  it  carried  far  and 
stiffened  every  figure  except  that  of  the  frantic  woman. 
With  convulsed  face,  purple  in  its  fury,  and  the  hot  eyes 
of  a  beast  of  prey  she  ran  right  up  at  the  cowboy, 
heedless  of  the  gun  he  held  leveled  low  down. 

He  shot  her.  She  swayed  backward,  uttering  a  low 
and  horrible  cry,  and  even  as  she  swayed  her  face  blanched 
and  her  eyes  changed.  She  fell  heavily,  with  her  golden 
hair  loosening  and  her  bare  white  arms  spreading  wide. 
Then  in  the  horror-stricken  silence  she  lay  there,  still 
conscious,  but  with  an  awful  hunted  realization  in  the 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  cowboy,  a  great  growing  splotch  of 
blood  darkening  the  white  of  her  dress. 

Larry  King  did  not  look  at  Stanton  and  he  kept  moving 
down  the  steps;  he  was  walking  faster  now,  and  he  drew 
Allie  behind  him.  The  first  of  that  stunned  group  to 
awake  to  action  was  the  giant  Fresno,  as,  with  blind,  un 
reasoning  passion,  he  attempted  to  draw  upon  the  cowboy. 
The  boom  of  Larry's  big  gun  and  the  crash  of  Fresno  as  he 
fell  woke  the  spellbound  crowd  into  an  uproar.  Screaming 
women  and  shouting  men  rushed  madly  back  into  the 
dance-hall. 

Larry  turned  toward  the  hallway  leading  to  the  street. 
Mull  and  Black  began  shooting  as  he  turned,  and  hit 
him,  for  Allie,  holding  fast  to  him,  felt  the  vibrating  shock 
of  his  body.  With  two  swift  shots  Larry  killed  both  men. 
Mull  fell  across  the  width  of  the  hall.  And  as  Allie  stumbled 
over  his  body  she  looked  down  to  see  his  huge  head,  his 
ruddy  face,  and  the  great  ox-eyes,  rolling  and  ghastly. 
In  that  brief  glance  she  saw  him  die. 

The  cowboy  strode  fast  now.  Allie,  with  hands  clenched 
in  his  coat,  clung  desperately  to  him.  Hollow  booms  of 
guns  filled  the  passageway,  and  hoarse  shouts  of  alarmed 
men  sounded  from  the  street.  Burned  powder  smoke 
choked  Allie.  The  very  marrow  of  her  bones  seemed 
curdled.  She  saw  the  red  belches  of  fire  near  and  far;  she 

337 


THE  TJ.    P.   TRAIL 

passed  a  man  floundering  and  bellowing  on  the  floor;  she 
felt  Larry  jerk  back  as  if  struck,  and  then  something  hot 
grazed  her  shoulder.  A  bullet  had  torn  clear  through 
him,  from  breast  to  back.  He  staggered,  but  he  went  on. 
Another  man  lay  on  the  threshold  of  the  wide  door,  his 
head  down  the  step,  and  his  pallid  face  blood-streaked. 
A  smoking  gun  lay  near  his  twitching  hand.  That  pallid 
face  belonged  to  Dayss. 

Larry  King  staggered  out  into  an  empty  street,  looking 
up  and  down.  "Wai,  I  reckon — thet's — aboot — all!"  he 
drawled,  with  low,  strangled  utterance. 

Then  swaying  from  side  to  side  he  strode  swiftly,  almost 
falling  forward,  holding  tight  to  Allie.  They  drew  away 
from  the  brighter  lights.  Allie  was  dimly  aware  of  moving 
forms  ahead  and  across  the  street.  Once,  fearfully,  she 
looked  back,  to  see  if  they  were  followed. 

The  cowboy  halted,  tottering  against  a  house.  He  seemed 
pale  and  smiling. 

"Run— Allie!"  he  whispered. 

"No — no — no!"  she  replied,  clinging  to  him.  "You're 
shot!  .  .  .  Oh,  Larry — come  on!" 

"Tell— my  pard—Neale—" 

His  head  fell  back  hard  against  the  wood  and  his  body, 
sagging,  lodged  there.  Life  had  passed  out  of  the  gray  face. 
Larry  Red  King  died  standing,  with  a  gun  in  each  hand, 
and  the  name  of  his  friend  the  last  word  upon  his  lips. 

"Oh,  Larry — Larry!"  moaned  Allie. 

She  could  not  run.  She  could  scarcely  walk.  Dark 
forms  loomed  up.  Her  strength  failed,  and  as  she  reeled, 
sinking  down,  rude  hands  grasped  her.  Above  her  bent 
the  gleaming  face  and  glittering  eyes  of  Durade. 


CHAPTER  XXVm 

BEAUTY  STANTON  opened  her  eyes  to  see  blue  sky 
through  the  ragged  vents  of  a  worn-out  canvas  tent. 
An  unusual  quietness  all  around  added  to  the  strange  un 
reality  of  her  situation.  She  heard  only  a  low,  mournful 
seeping  of  wind-blown  sand.  Where  was  she?  What  had 
happened?  Was  this  only  a  vivid,  fearful  dream? 

She  felt  stiff,  unable  to  move.  Did  a  ponderous  weight 
hold  her  down?  Her  body  seemed  immense,  full  of  dull, 
horrible  ache,  and  she  had  no  sensation  of  lower  limbs 
-except  a  creeping  cold. 

Slowly  she  moved  her  eyes  around.  Yes,  she  was  in  a 
tent — an  abandoned  tent,  old,  ragged,  dirty;  and  she  lay1 
on  the  bare  ground.  Through  a  wide  tear  in  the  canvas 
she  saw  a  stretch  of  flat  ground  covered  with  stakes  and 
boards  and  denuded  frameworks  and  piles  of  debris.  Then 
grim  reality  entered  her  consciousness.  Benton  was 
evacuated.  Benton  was  depopulated.  Benton — houses, 
tents,  people — had  moved  away. 

During  her  unconsciousness,  perhaps  while  she  had 
been  thought  dead,  she  had  been  carried  to  this  abandoned 
tent.  A  dressing-gown  covered  her,  the  one  she  always 
put  on  in  the  first  hours  after  arising.  The  white  dress  she 
had  worn  last  night — was  it  last  night? — still  adorned 
her,  but  all  her  jewelry  had  been  taken.  Then  she  re 
membered  being  lifted  to  a  couch  and  cried  over  by  her 
girls,  while  awestruck  men  came  to  look  at  her  and 
talk  among  themselves.  But  she  had  heard  how  the 
cowboy's  shot  had  doomed  her — how  he  had  fought  his 
way  out,  only  to  fall  dead  in  the  street  and  leave  the  girl 
to  be  taken  by  Durade. 

339 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Now  Beauty  Stanton  realized  that  she  had  been  left 
alone  in  an  abandoned  tent  of  an  abandoned  camp — to  die. 
She  became  more  conscious  then  of  dull  physical  agony. 
But  neither  fear  of  death  nor  thought  of  pain  occupied  her 
mind.  That  suddenly  awoke  to  remorse.  With  the  slow 
ebbing  of  her  life  evil  had  passed  out.  If  she  had  been 
given  a  choice  between  the  salvation  of  her  soul  and  to 
have  Neale  with  her  in  her  last  moments,  to  tell  him  the 
truth,  to  beg  his  forgiveness,  to  die  in  his  arms,  she  would 
have  chosen  the  latter.  Would  not  some  trooper  come 
before  she  died,  some  one  to  whom  she  could  intrust  a 
message?  Some  grave-digger!  For  the  great  U.  P.  R. 
buried  the  dead  it  left  in  its  bloody  tracks ! 

With  strange,  numb  hands  Stanton  searched  the  pockets 
of  her  dressing-gown,  to  find,  at  length,  a  little  account- 
book  with  pencil  attached.  Then,  with  stiffened  fingers, 
but  acute  mind,  she  began  to  write  to  Neale.  As  she  wrote 
into  each  word  went  something  of  the  pang,  the  remorse, 
the  sorrow,  the  love  she  felt;  and  when  that  letter  was 
ended  she  laid  the  little  book  on  her  breast  and  knew  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years — peace. 

She  endured  the  physical  agony;  she  did  not  cry  out,  or 
complain,  or  repent,  or  pray.  Most  of  the  spiritual  emo 
tion  and  life  left  in  her  had  gone  into  the  letter.  Memory 
called  up  only  the  last  moments  of  her  life — when  she  saw 
Ancliffe  die;  when  she  folded  innocent  Allie  Lee  to  the 
breast  that  had  always  yearned  for  a  child;  when  Neale 
in  his  monstrous  stupidity  had  misunderstood  her ;  when  he 
had  struck  her  before  the  grinning  crowd,  and  in  burning, 
words  branded  her  with  the  one  name  unpardonable  to  her 
class;  when  at  the  climax  of  a  morbid  and  all-consuming 
hate,  a  hate  of  the  ruined  woman  whose  body  and  mind 
had  absorbed  the  vile  dregs,  the  dark  fire  and  poison,  of 
lustful  men,  she  had  inhumanly  given  Allie  Lee  to  the 
man  she  had  believed  the  wildest,  most  depraved,  and 
most  dangerous  brute  in  all  Benton;  when  this  Larry 
King,  by  some  strange  fatality,  becoming  as  great  as  he 

340 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

was  wild,  had  stalked  out  to  meet  her  like  some  red  and 
terrible  death. 

She  remembered  now  that  strange,  icy  gloom  and  shudder 
she  had  always  felt  in  the  presence  of  the  cowboy.  Within 
her  vitals  now  was  the  same  cold,  deadly,  sickening  sensa 
tion,  and  it  was  death.  Always  she  had  anticipated  it, 
but  vaguely,  unrealizingly. 

Larry  King  had  lifted  the  burden  of  her  life.  She  would 
have  been  glad — if  only  Neale  had  understood  her!  That 
was  her  last  wavering  conscious  thought. 

Now  she  drifted  from  human  consciousness  to  the  in 
stinctive  physical  struggle  of  the  animal  to  live,  and  that 
was  not  strong.  There  came  a  moment,  the  last,  between 
life  and  death,  when  Beauty  Stanton's  soul  lingered  on 
the  threshold  of  its  lonely  and  eternal  pilgrimage,  and 
then  drifted  across  into  the  gray  shadows,  into  the  unknown, 
out  to  the  great  beyond. 

Casey  leaned  on  his  spade  while  he  wiped  the  sweat 
from  his  brow  and  regarded  his  ally  McDermott.  Be 
tween  them  yawned  a  grave  they  had  been  digging  and 
near  at  hand  lay  a  long,  quiet  form  wrapped  in  old  canvas. 

"Mac,  I'll  be  domned  if  I  loike  this  job,"  said  Casey, 
drawing  hard  at  his  black  pipe. 

"Yez  want  to  be  a  directhor  of  the  U.  P.  R.,  huh?"  re' 
plied  McDermott. 

"Shure  an'  I've  did  iviry  job  but  run  an  ingine.  .  .  . 
It's  imposed  on  we  are,  Mac.  Thim  troopers  niver  work. 
Why  couldn't  they  plant  these  stiffs?" 

"Casey,  I  reckon  no  wan's  bossin'  us.  Benton  picked 
up  an'  moved  yisteday.  An'  we'll  be  goin'  soon  wid  the 
gravel-train.  It's  only  dacent  of  us  to  bury  the  remains 
of  Benton.  An'  shure  yez  ought  to  be  glad  to  see  that 
orful  red-head  cowboy  go  under  the  ground." 

"An'  fer  why?"  queried  Casey. 

"Didn't  he  throw  a  gun  on  yez  onct  an*  scare  the  day* 
lights  out  of  yez?" 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"  Mac,  I  wuz  as  cool  as  a  coocumber.  An'  as  to  buryin' 
Larry  King,  I'm  proud  an'  sorry.  He  wuz  Neale's  fri'nd." 

"My  Gawd!  but  he  wor  chain  lightnin',  Casey.  They 
said  he  shot  the  woman  Stanton,  too." 

"Mac,  thet  wor  a  dom'  lie,  I  bet,"  replied  Casey.  "He 
shot  up  Stanton's  hall,  an'  a  bullet  from  some  of  thim  wot 
was  foightin'  him  must  hev  hit  her." 

"Mebbe.  But  it  wor  bad  bizness.  That  cowboy  hit 
iviry  wan  of  thim  fellars  in  the  same  place.  Shure,  they 
niver  blinked  afther." 

"An'  Mac,  the  best  an'  dirtiest  job  we've  had  on  this 
U.  P.  was  the  plantin'  of  thim  fellars." 

Casey's  huge  hand  indicated  a  row  of  freshly  filled 
graves  over  which  the  desert  sand  was  seeping.  Then 
dropping  his  spade,  he  bent  to  the  quiet  figure. 

"Lay  hold,  Mac,"  he  said. 

They  lowered  the  corpse  into  the  hole.  Casey  stood 
IBp,  making  a  sign  of  the  cross  before  him. 

"He  wor  a  man!" 

Then  they  filled  the  grave. 

"Mac,  wouldn't  it  be  dacent  to  mark  where  Larry 
King's  buried?  A  stone  or  wooden  cross  with  his  name?" 

McDermott  wrinkled  his  red  brow  and  scratched  his 
sandy  beard.  Then  he  pointed.  "Casey,  wot's  the  use? 
See,  the  blowin'  sand's  kivered  all  the  graves." 

"Mac,  yez  wor  always  hell  at  shirkin'  worrk.  Come  on, 
now.  Drill,  ye  terrier,  drill!" 

They  quickly  dug  another  long,  narrow  hole.  Then, 
taking  a  rude  stretcher,  they  plodded  away  in  the  di 
rection  of  a  dilapidated  tent  that  appeared  to  be  the  only 
structure  left  of  Benton.  Casey  entered  ahead  of  his 
comrade. 

"Thot'ssthrange!" 

"Wot?"  queried  McDermott. 

"Didn't  yez  kiver  her  face  whin  we  laid  her  down 
here?" 

"Shure  an'  I  did,  Casey." 

342 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

"An*  that  face  has  a  different  look  now!  .  .  .  Mac,  see 
here!" 

Casey  stooped  to  pick  up  a  little  book  from  the  woman's 
breast.  His  huge  fingers  opened  it  with  difficulty. 

"Mac,  there's  wroitin'  in  ut!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Wai,  rade,  ye  baboon." 

"Oh,  I  kin  rade  ut,  though  I  ain't  much  of  a  wroiter  me- 
self,"  replied  Casey,  and  then  laboriously  began  to  decipher 
the  writing.  He  halted  suddenly  and  looked  keenly  at 
McDermott. 

"Wot  the  divil!  .  .  .  B'gorra,  ut's  to  me  fri'nd  Neale — 
an'  a  love  letter — an' — " 

"Wai,  kape  it,  thin,  fer  Neale  an'  be  dacent  enough  to 
rade  no  more." 

Lifting  Beauty  Stanton,  they  carried  her  out  into  the 
sunlight.  Her  white  face  was  a  shadowed  and  tragic 
record. 

"Mac,  she  wor  shure  a  handsome  woman,"  said  Casey, 
"an'  a  loidy." 

"Casey,  yez  are  always  sorry  fer  somebody.  .  .  .  Thot 
Stanton  wuz  a  beauty  an'  she  mebbe  wuz  a  loidy.  But 
she  wuz  dom'  bad." 

"Mac,  I  knowed  long  ago  thot  the  milk  of  human  kind 
ness  hed  curdled  in  yez.  An'  yez  hev  no  brains." 

"I'm  as  intilligint  as  yez  any  day,"  retorted  McDermott. 

"Thin  why  hedn't  yez  seen  thot  this  poor  woman  was 
alive  whin  we  packed  her  out  here?  She  come  to  an'  writ 
thot  letter  to  Neale — thin  she  doied!" 

"My  Gawd!  Casey,  yez  ain't  meanin'  ut!"  ejaculated 
McDermott,  aghast. 

Casey  nodded  grimly,  and  then  he  knelt  to  listen  at 
Stanton's  breast.  "Stone  dead  now — thot's  shure." 

For  her  shroud  these  deliberate  men  used  strippings  of 
canvas  from  the  tent,  and  then,  carrying  her  up  the  bare 
and  sandy  slope,  they  lowered  her  into  the  grave  next  to 
the  one  of  the  cowboy. 

Again  Casey  made  a  sign  of  the  cross.  He  worked  longer 

343 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

at  the  filling  in  than  his  comrade,  and  patted  the  mound  of 
sand  hard  and  smooth.  When  he  finished,  his  pipe  was 
out.  He  relighted  it. 

"Wai,  Beauty  Stanton,  shure  yez  hev  a  cleaner  grave 
than  yez  bed  a  bed.  .  .  .  Nice  white  desert  sand.  .  .  . 
An'  prisintly  no  man  will  ivir  know  where  yez  come  to  lay." 

The  laborers  shouldered  their  spades  and  plodded 
away. 

The  wind  blew  steadily  in  from  the  desert,  seeping  the 
sand  in  low,  thin  sheets.  Afternoon  waned,  the  sun  sank, 
twilight  crept  over  the  barren  waste.  There  were  no 
sounds  but  the  seep  of  sand,  the  moan  of  wind,  the  mourn 
of  wolf.  Loneliness  came  with  the  night  that  mantled 
Beauty  Stanton's  grave.  Shadows  trooped  in  from  the 
desert  and  the  darkness  grew  black.  On  that  slope  the 
wind  always  blew,  and  always  the  sand  seeped,  dusting 
over  everything,  imperceptibly  changing  the  surface  of 
the  earth.  The  desert  was  still  at  work.  Nature  was  no 
respecter  of  graves.  Life  was  nothing.  Radiant,  cold 
stars  blinked  pitilessly  out  of  the  vast  blue-black  vault  of 
heaven.  But  there  hovered  a  spirit  beside  this  woman's 
last  resting-place — a  spirit  like  the  night,  sad,  lonely,  silent, 
mystical,  immense. 

And  as  it  hovered  over  hers  so  it  hovered  over  other  name 
less  graves. 

In  the  eternal  workshop  of  nature,  the  tenants  of 
these  unnamed  and  forgotten  graves  would  mingle  dust  of 
good  with  dust  of  evil,  and  by  the  divinity  of  death  re 
solve  equally  into  the  elements  again. 

The  place  that  had  known  Benton  knew  it  no  more. 
Coyotes  barked  dismally  down  what  had  been  the  famous 
street  of  the  camp  and  prowled  in  and  out  of  the  piles 
of  debris  and  frames  of  wood.  Gone  was  the  low,  strange 
roar  that  had  been  neither  music  nor  mirth  nor  labor. 
Benton  remained  only  a  name. 

344 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

The  sun  rose  upon  a  squalid  scene — a  wide  flat  area 
where  stakes  and  floors  and  frames  mingled  with  all  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  left  by  a  hurried  and  profligate  popu 
lace,  moving  on  to  another  camp.  Daylight  found  no 
man  there  nor  any  living  creature.  And  all  day  the  wind 
blew  the  dust  and  sheets  of  sand  over  the  place  where  had 
reigned  such  strife  of  toil  and  gold  and  lust  and  blood  and 
death.  A  train  passed  that  day,  out  of  which  engineer 
and  fireman  gazed  with  wondering  eyes  at  what  had  been 
Benton.  Like  a  mushroom  it  had  arisen,  and  like  a  dust- 
storm  on  the  desert  wind  it  had  roared  away,  bearing  its 
freight  of  labor,  of  passion,  and  of  evil.  Benton  had  be 
come  a  name — a  fabulous  name. 

But  nature  seemed  more  merciful  than  life.  For  it  began 
to  hide  what  men  had  left — the  scars  of  habitations  where 
hell  had  held  high  carnival.  Sunset  came,  then  night  and 
the  starlight.  The  lonely  hours  were  winged,  as  if  in  hurry 
to  resolve  back  into  the  elements  the  flimsy  remains  of 
that  great  camp. 

And  that  spot  was  haunted. 
II 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

CASEY  left  Benton  on  the  work-train.  It  was  com 
posed  of  a  long  string  of  box  and  flat  cars  loaded  with 
stone,  iron,  gravel,  ties — all  necessaries  for  the  up-keep 
of  the  road.  The  engine  was  at  the  rear  end,  pushing 
instead  of  pulling;  and  at  the  extreme  front  end  there 
was  a  flat-car  loaded  with  gravel.  A  number  of  laborers 
rode  on  this  car,  among  whom  was  Casey.  In  labor  or 
fighting  this  Irishman  always  gravitated  to  the  fore. 

All  along  the  track,  from  outside  of  Benton  to  the  top 
of  a  long,  slow  rise  of  desert  were  indications  of  the  fact 
that  Indians  had  torn  up  the  track  or  attempted  to  derail 
trains. 

The  signs  of  Sioux  had  become  such  an  every-day  mattef 
in  the  lives  of  the  laborers  that  they  were  indifferent  and 
careless.  Thus  isolated,  unprotected  groups  of  men,  out 
some  distance  from  the  work-train,  often  were  swooped 
down  upon  by  Indians  and  massacred. 

The  troopers  had  gone  on  with  the  other  trains  that 
carried  Benton's  inhabitants  and  habitations. 

Casey  and  his  comrades  had  slow  work  of  it  going 
westward,  as  it  was  necessary  to  repair  the  track  and  at 
the  same  time  to  keep  vigilant  watch  for  the  Sioux.  They 
expected  the  regular  train  from  the  east  to  overtake  them, 
but  did  not  even  see  its  smoke.  There  must  have  been  a 
wreck  or  telegraph  messages  to  hold  it  back  at  Medicine 
Bow. 

Toward  sunset  the  work-train  reached  the  height  of 
desert  land  that  sloped  in  long  sweeping  lines  down  to  the 
base  of  the  hills. 

346 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

At  this  juncture  a  temporary  station  had  been  left  in 
the  shape  of  several  box-cars  where  the  telegraph  operators' 
and  a  squad  of  troopers  lived. 

As  the  work-train  lumbered  along  to  the  crest  of  this' 
heave  of  barren  land  Casey  observed  that  some  one  at 
the  station  was  excitedly  waving  a  flag.  Thereupon 
Casey,  who  acted  as  brakeman,  signaled  the  engineer. 

"Dom'  coorious  thet,"  remarked  Casey  to  his  comrade 
McDermott.  "  Thim  operators  knowed  we'd  stop,  anyway." 

"Injins!"  exclaimed  McDermott. 

That  was  the  opinion  of  the  several  other  laborers  on 
the  front  car.  And  when  the  work-train  halted,  that 
car  had  run  beyond  the  station  a  few  rods.  Casey  and 
his  comrades  jumped  off.  . 

A  little  group  of  men  awaited  them.  The  operator,  a 
young  fellow  named  Collins,  was  known  to  Casey.  He 
stood  among  the  troopers,  pale-faced  and  shaking. 

"Casey,  who's  in  charge  of  the  train?"  he  asked,  ner 
vously. 

The  Irishman's  grin  enlarged,  making  it  necessary  for 
him  to  grasp  his  pipe. 

"Shure  the  engineer's  boss  of  the  train  an'  I'm  boss  of 
the  gang." 

More  of  the  work-train  men  gathered  round  the  group, 
and  the  engineer  with  his  fireman  approached. 

"You've  got  to  hold  up  here,"  said  Collins. 

Casey  removed  his  pipe  to  refill  it.  "Ah-huh!"  he 
grunted. 

"Wire  from  Medicine  Bow — order  to  stop  General 
Lodge's  train — three  hundred  Sioux  in  ambush  near 
this  station — Lodge's  train  between  here  and  Roaring  City." 
breathlessly  went  on  the  operator. 

"An'  the  message  come  from  Medicine  Bow!"  ejaculated 
Casey,  while  his  men  gaped  and  muttered. 

"Yes.  It  must  have  been  sent  here  last  night.  But 
O'Neil,  the  night  operator,  was  dead.  Murdered  by 
Indians  while  we  slept." 

347 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Thot's  hell!"  replied  Casey,  sericasly,  as  he  lit  hie 
pipe. 

"The  message  went  through  to  Medicine  Bow.  Stacey 
down  there  sent  it  back  to  me.  I  tried  to  get  Hills  at 
Roaring  City.  No  go!  The  wire's  cut!" 

"An'  shure  the  gineral's  train  has  left — wot's  that 
new  camp — Roarin'  wot?" 

"Roaring  City.  .  .  .  General  Lodge  went  through 
two  days  ago  with  a  private  train.  He  had  soldiers,  as 
usual.  But  no  force  to  stand  off  three  hundred  Sioux,  or 
even  a  hundred." 

"Wai,  the  gineral  must  hev  lift  Roarin'  Camp — else 
thot  message  niver  would  hev  come." 

"So  I  think.  .  .  .  Now  what  on  earth  can  we  do? 
The  engineer  of  his  train  can't  stop  for  orders  short  of 
this  station,  for  the  reason  that  there  are  no  stations." 

"An'  thim  Sooz  is  in  ambush  near  here?"  queried  Casey, 
reflectively.  "Shure  thot  could  only  be  in  wan  place.  I 
'rimimber  thot  higher,  narrer  pass." 

"Right.  It's  steep  up-grade  coming  east.  Train  can 
be  blocked.  General  Lodge  with  his  staff  and  party — 
and  his  soldiers — would  be  massacred  without  a  chance 
to  fight.  That  pass  always  bothered  us  for  fear  of  ambush. 
Now  the  Sioux  have  come  west  far  enough  to  find  it.  ... 
No  chance  on  earth  for  a  train  there — not  if  it  carried  a 
thousand  soldiers." 

"Wai,  if  the  gineral  an*  company  was  sthopped  some 
where  beyond  thot  pass?"  queried  Casey,  shrewdly,  as 
he  took  a  deep  pull  at  his  pipe. 

"Then  at  least  they  could  fight.  They  have  stood 
off  attacks  before.  They  might  hold  out  for  the  train 
following,  or  even  run  back." 

"Thin,  Collins,  we've  only  got  to  sthop  the  gineral's 
train  before  it  reaches  thot  dom'  trap." 

"But  we  can't!"  cried  Collins.  "The  wire  is  cut.  It 
wouldn't  help  matters  if  it  weren't.  I  thought  when  I 
saw  your  train  we  might  risk  sending  the  engine  on  alone. 

348 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

But  your  engine  is  behind  all  these  loaded  cars.    No  switch. 
Oh,  it  is  damnable!" 

"Collins,  there's  more  domnable  things  than  yez  ever 
iieerd  of.  ...  I'll  sthop  Gineral  Lodge!" 

The  brawny  Irishman  wheeled  and  strode  back  toward 
the  front  car  of  the  train.  All  the  crowd,  to  a  man,  mutter 
ing  and  gaping,  followed  him.  Casey  climbed  up  on  the 
gravel-car. 

"Casey,  wot  in  hell  would  yez  be  afther  doin'?"  demand 
ed  McDermott. 

Casey  grinned  at  his  old  comrade.  "Mac,  yez  do  me  a 
favor.  Uncouple  the  car." 

McDermott  stepped  between  the  cars  and  the  rattle 
and  clank  of  iron  told  that  he  had  complied  with  Casey's 
request. 

Collins,  with  all  the  men  on  the  ground,  grasped  Casey's 
idea. 

"By  God!  Casey,  can  you  do  it?  There's  down-grade 
for  twenty  miles.  Once  start  this  gravel-car  and  she'll 
go  clear  to  the  hills.  But — but — " 

"Collins,  it  '11  be  aisy.  I'll  slip  through  thot  pass  loike 
oil.  Thim  Sooz  won't  be  watchin'  this  way.  There's  av 
curve.  They  won't  hear  till  too  late.  An'  shure  they 
don't  niver  obsthruct  a  track  till  the  last  minute." 

"But,  Casey,  once  through  the  pass  you  can't  control 
^hat  gravel-car.  The  brakes  won't  hold.  You'll  run  square 
into  the  general's  train — wreck  it!" 

"Naw!  I've  got  a  couple  of  ties,  an'  if  thot  wreck 
threatens  I'll  heave  a  tie  off  on  the  track  an'  derail  me 
private  car." 

"Casey,  it's  sure  death!"  exclaimed  Collins.  His  voice 
and  the  pallor  of  his  face  and  the  beads  of  sweat  all  pro 
claimed  him  new  to  the  U.  P.  R. 

"Me  boy,  nuthin's  shure  whin  yez  are  drillin'  with  the 
Paddies." 

Casey  was  above  surprise  and  beyond  disdain.  He 
was  a  huge,  toil-hardened,  sun-reddened,  hard-drinking 

349 


THE    U.    P,   TRAIL 

soldier  of  the  railroad,  a  loquacious  Irishman  whose  fixed 
grin  denied  him  any  gravity,  a  foreman  of  his  gang.  His 
chief  delight  was  to  outdo  his  bosom  comrade,  McDermott. 
He  did  not  realize  that  he  represented  an  unconquerable 
and  unquenchable  spirit.  Neither  did  his  comrade  know. 
But  under  Casey's  grin  shone  something  simple,  radiant, 
hard  as  steel. 

"Put  yer  shoulders  ag'in'  an'  shove  me  off,"  he  ordered. 

Like  automatons  the  silent  laborers  started  the  car. 

"Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!  Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!"  sang 
Casey,  as  he  stood  at  the  wheel-brake. 

The  car  gathered  momentum.  McDermott  was  the 
last  to  let  go. 

"Good  luck  to  yez!"  he  shouted,  hoarsely. 

"Mac,  tell  thim  yez  saw  me!"  called  Casey.  Then  he 
waved  his  hand  in  good-by  to  the  crowd.  Their  response 
was  a  short,  ringing  yell.  They  watched  the  car  glide 
slowly  out  of  sight. 

For  a  few  moments  Casey  was  more  concerned  with 
the  fact  that  a  breeze  had  blown  out  his  pipe  than  with 
anything  else.  Skilful  as  years  had  made  him,  he  found 
unusual  difficulty  in  relighting  it,  and  he  would  not  have 
been  beyond  stopping  the  car  to  accomplish  that  impera 
tive  need.  When  he  had  succeeded  and  glanced  back 
the  station  was  out  of  sight. 

Casey  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  curve  of  the  track  ahead 
where  it  disappeared  between  the  sage-covered  sandy  banks. 
Here  the  grade  was  scarcely  perceptible  to  any  but  ex 
perienced  eyes.  And  the  gravel-car  crept  along  as  if  it 
would  stop  any  moment.  But  Casey  knew  that  it  was 
not  likely  to  stop,  and  if  it  did  he  could  start  it  again.  A 
heavy-laden  car  like  this,  once  started,  would  run  a  long 
way  on  a  very  little  grade.  What  worried  him  was  the 
creaking  and  rattle  of  wheels,  sounds  that  from  where  he 
stood  were  apparently  very  loud. 

He  turned  the  curve  into  a  stretch  of  straight  track  where 
there  came  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  strength  of  the 

350 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

breeze  against  his  face.  While  creeping  along  at  this 
point  he  scooped  out  a  hole  in  the  gravel  mound  on  the 
car,  making  a  place  that  might  afford  some  protection 
from  Indian  bullets  and  arrows.  That  accomplished,  he 
had  nothing  to  do  but  hold  on  to  the  wheel-brake,  and 
gaze  ahead. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  speed  increased  suffi 
ciently  to  insure  him  against  any  danger  of  a  stop.  The 
wind  began  to  blow  his  hair  and  whip  away  the  smoke 
of  his  pipe.  And  the  car  began  to  cover  distance.  Several 
miles  from  the  station  he  entered  the  shallow  mouth  of  a 
gully  where  the  grade  increased.  His  speed  accelerated 
correspondingly  until  he  was  rolling  along  faster  than  a  man 
could  run.  The  track  had  been  built  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
gully  which  curved  between  low  bare  hills,  and  which  grew 
deeper  and  of  a  rougher  character.  Casey  had  spiked 
many  of  the  rails  over  which  he  passed. 

He  found  it  necessary  to  apply  the  brake  so  that  he 
would  not  take  the  sharp  curves  at  dangerous  speed. 
The  brake  did  not  work  well  and  gave  indications  that  it 
would  not  stand  a  great  deal.  With  steady,  rattling  creak, 
and  an  occasional  clank,  the  car  rolled  on. 

If  Casey  remembered  the  lay  of  the  land,  there  was  a 
long,  straight  stretch  of  track,  ending  in  several  curves, 
the  last  of  which  turned  sharply  into  the  narrow  cut  where 
the  Sioux  would  ambush  and  obstruct  the  train.  At  this 
point  it  was  Casey's  intention  to  put  off  the  brake  and  let 
his  car  run  wild. 

It  seemed  an  endless  time  before  he  reached  the  head  of 
that  stretch.  Then  he  let  go  of  the  wheel.  And  the  gravel- 
car  began  to  roll  on  faster. 

Casey  appeared  to  be  grimly  and  conscientiously  con 
cerned  over  his  task,  and  he  was  worried  about  the  out 
come.  He  must  get  his  car  beyond  that  narrow  cut.  If 
it  jumped  the  track  or  ran  into  an  obstruction,  or  if  the 
Sioux  spied  him  in  time,  then  his  work  would  not  be  well 
done.  He  welcomed  the  gathering  momentum,  yet  was 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

fearful  of  the  curve  he  saw  a  long  distance  ahead.  When  he 
reached  that  he  would  be  going  at  a  high  rate  of  speed — 
too  fast  to  take  the  curve  safely. 

A  little  dimness  came  to  Casey's  eyes.  Years  of  hot 
sun  and  dust  and  desert  wind  had  not  made  his  eyes  any 
stronger.  The  low  gray  walls,  the  white  bleached  rocks, 
the  shallow  stream  of  water,  the  fringe  of  brush,  and  the 
long  narrowing  track — all  were  momentarily  indistinct 
in  his  sight.  His  breast  seemed  weighted.  Over  and 
over  in  his  mind  revolved  the  several  possibilites  that 
awaited  him  at  the  cut,  and  every  rod  of  the  distance 
now  added  to  his  worry.  It  grew  to  be  dread.  Chances 
were  against  him.  The  thing  intrusted  to  him  was  not 
in  his  control.  Casey  resented  this.  He  had  never  failed 
at  a  job.  The  U.  P.  R.  had  to  be  built — and  who  could 
tell? — if  the  chief  engineer  and  all  his  staff  and  the  directors 
of  the  road  were  massacred  by  the  Sioux,  perhaps  that 
might  be  a  last  and  crowning  catastrophe. 

Casey  had  his  first  cold  thrill.  And  his  nerves  tightened 
for  the  crisis,  while  his  horny  hands  gripped  on  the  brake. 
The  car  was  running  wild,  with  a  curve  just  ahead.  It 
made  an  unearthly  clatter.  The  Indians  would  hear  that. 
But  they  would  have  to  be  swift,  if  he  stayed  on  the  track. 
Almost  before  he  realized  it  the  car  lurched  at  the  bend. 
Casey  felt  the  off-side  wheels  leave  the  rail,  heard  the 
scream  of  the  inside  wheels  grinding  hard.  But  for  his 
grip  on  the  wheel  he  would  have  been  thrown.  The  wind 
whistled  in  his  ears.  With  a  sudden  lurch  the  car  seemed 
to  rise.  Casey  thought  it  had  jumped  the  track.  But  it 
banged  back,  righted  itself,  rounded  the  curve. 

Here  the  gully  widened — sent  off  branches.  Casey  saw 
hundreds  of  horses — but  not  an  Indian.  He  rolled  swiftly 
on,  crossed  a  bridge,  and  saw  more  horses.  His  grim 
anticipation  became  a  reality.  The  Sioux  were  in  the 
ambush.  What  depended  on  him  and  his  luck!  Casey's 
red  check  blanched,  but  it  was  not  with  fear  for  him 
self.  Not  yet  on  this  ride  had  he  entertained  one  thought 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

concerning  his  own  personal  relation  to  its  fragile  possi 
bilities. 

To  know  the  Sioux  were  there  made  a  tremendous 
difference.  A  dark  and  terrible  sternness  actuated  Casey. 
He  projected  his  soul  into  that  clattering  car  of  iron  and 
wood.  And  it  was  certain  he  prayed.  His  hair  stood 
straight  up.  There!  the  narrow  cut  in  the  hill!  the  curve 
of  the  track !  He  was  pounding  at  it.  The  wheels  shrieked. 
Looking  up,  he  saw  only  the  rocks  and  gray  patches  of 
brush  and  the  bare  streak  of  earth.  No  Indian  showed. 

His  gaze  strained  to  find  an  obstruction  on  the  track. 
The  car  rode  the  curve  on  two  wheels.  It  seemed  alive. 
It  entered  the  cut  with  hollow,  screeching  roar.  The 
shade  of  the  narrow  place  was  gloomy.  Here!  It  must 
happen!  Casey's  heart  never  lifted  its  ponderous  weight. 
Then,  shooting  round  the  curve,  he  saw  ao  open  track  and 
bright  sunlight  beyond. 

Above  the  roar  of  wheels  sounded  spatting  reports  of 
rifles.  Casey  forgot  to  dodge  into  his  gravel  shelter.  He 
was  living  a  strange,  dragging  moment — an  age.  Out  shot 
the  car  into  the  light.  Likewise  Casey's  dark  blankness  of 
mind  ended.  His  heart  lifted  with  a  mighty  throb.  There 
shone  the  gray  endless  slope,  stretching  out  and  down  to 
the  black  hills  in  the  distance.  Shrill  wild  yells  made 
Casey  wheel.  The  hillside  above  the  cut  was  colorful  and 
spotted  with  moving  objects.  Indians!  Puffs  of  white 
smoke  arose.  Casey  felt  the  light  impact  of  lead.  Glancing 
bright  streaks  darted  down.  They  were  arrows.  Two 
thudded  into  the  gravel,  one  into  the  wood.  Then  some 
thing  tugged  at  his  shoulder.  Another  arrow!  Suddenly 
the  shaft  was  there  in  his  sight,  quivering  in  his  flesh.  It 
bit  deep.  With  one  wrench  he  tore  it  out  and  shook  it 
aloft  at  the  Sioux. 

"Oi  bate  yez  dom'  Sooz!"  he  yelled,  in  fierce  defiance. 
The  long  screeching  clamor  of  baffled  rage  and  the  scatter 
ing  volley  of  rifle-shots  kept  up  until  the  car  passed  out  of 
range. 

353 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Casey  faced  ahead.  The  Sioux  were  behind  him.  He 
had  a  free  track.  Far  down  the  gray  valley,  where  the 
rails  disappeared,  were  low  streaks  of  black  smoke  from 
a  locomotive.  The  general's  train  was  coming. 

The  burden  of  worry  and  dread  that  had  been  Casey's 
was  now  no  more — vanished  as  if  by  magic.  His  job  had 
not  yet  been  completed,  but  he  had  won.  He  never  glanced 
back  at  the  Sioux.  They  had  failed  in  their  first  effort  at 
ambushing  the  cut,  and  Casey  knew  the  troops  would 
prevent  a  second  attempt.  Casey  faced  ahead.  The 
whistle  of  wind  filled  his  ears,  the  dry,  sweet  odor  of  the 
desert  filled  his  nostrils.  His  car  was  on  a  straight  track, 
rolling  along  down-grade,  half  a  mile  a  minute.  And  Casey, 
believing  he  might  do  well  to  slow  up  gradually,  lightly 
put  on  the  brake.  But  it  did  not  hold.  He  tried  again. 
The  brake  had  broken. 

He  stood  at  the  wheel,  his  eyes  clear  now,  watching  ahead. 
•The  train  down  in  the  valley  was  miles  away,  not  yet  even 
a  black  dot  in  the  gray.  The  smoke,  however,  began  to  lift. 

Casey  was  suddenly  struck  by  a  vague  sense  that  some 
thing  was  wrong  with  him. 

' '  Phwat  the  hell !"  he  muttered.  Then  his  mind,  strangely 
absorbed,  located  the  trouble.  His  pipe  had  gone  out! 
Casey  stooped  in  the  hole  he  had  made  in  the  gravel,  and 
there,  knocking  his  pipe  in  his  palm,  he  found  the  ashes 
cold.  When  had  that  ever  happened  before?  Casey 
wagged  his  heacj.  For  his  pipe  to  go  cold  and  he  not  to 
know!  Things  were  happening  on  the  U.  P.  R.  these  days. 
Casey  refilled  the  pipe,  and,  with  the  wind  whistling  over 
him,  he  relit  it.  He  drew  deep  and  long,  stood  up,  grasped 
the  wheel,  and  felt  all  his  blood  change. 

"Me  poipe  goin'  cold — that  wor  funny !"  soliloquized 
Casey. 

The  phenomenon  appeared  remarkable  to  him.  Indeed, 
it  stood  alone.  He  measured  the  nature  of  this  job  by 
that  forgetfulness.  And  memories  thrilled  him.  With 
his  eye  clear  on  the  track  that  split  the  gray  expanse,  with 

354 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

his  whole  being  permeated  by  the  soothing  influence  of 
smoke,  with  his  task  almost  done,  Casey  experienced  an 
unprecedented  thing  for  him — he  lived  over  past  per 
formances  and  found  them  vivid,  thrilling,  somehow  sweet. 
Battles  of  the  Civil  War;  the  day  he  saved  a  flag;  and, 
better,  the  night  he  saved  Pat  Shane,  who  had  lived  only 
to  stop  a  damned  Sioux  bullet;  many  and  many  an  adven 
ture  with  McDermott,  who,  just  a  few  minutes  past,  had 
watched  him  with  round,  shining  eyes;  and  the  fights  he 
had  seen  and  shared — all  these  things  passed  swiftly  through 
Casey's  mind  and  filled  him  with  a  lofty  and  serene  pride. 

He  was  pleased  with  himself;  more  pleased  with  what 
McDermott  would  think.  Casey's  boyhood  did  not  return 
to  him,  but  his  mounting  exhilaration  and  satisfaction  were 
boyish.  It  was  great  to  ride  this  way! .  .  .  There!  he  saw 
a  long,  black  dot  down  in  the  gray.  The  train ! . . .  General 
Lodge  had  once  shaken  hands  with  Casey. 

Somebody  had  to  do  these  things,  since  the  U.  P.  R. 
must  reach  across  to  the  Pacific.  A  day  would  come  when 
a  splendid  passenger-train  would  glide  smoothly  down  this 
easy  grade  where  Casey  jolted  along  on  his  gravel-car. 
The  fact  loomed  large  in  the  simplicity  of  the  Irishman's 
mind.  He  began  to  hum  his  favorite  song.  Facing  west 
ward,  he  saw  the  black  dot  grow  into  a  long  train.  Like 
wise  he  saw  the  beauty  of  the  red-gold  sunset  behind  the 
hills.  Casey  gloried  in  the  wildness  of  the  scene — in 
the  meaning  of  his  ride — particularly  in  his  loneliness. 
He  seemed  strangely  alone  there  on  that  vast  gray  slope 
— a  man  and  somehow  accountable  for  all  these  things, 
He  felt  more  than  he  understood.  His  long-tried  nerve 
and  courage  and  strength  had  never  yielded  this  wonderful 
buoyancy  and  sense  of  loftiness.  He  was  Casey — Casey 
who  had  let  all  the  gang  run  for  shelter  from  the  Sioux 
while  he  had  remained  for  one  last  and  final  drive  at  a 
railroad  spike.  But  the  cool,  devil-may-care  indifference, 
common  to  all  his  comrades  as  well  as  to  himself,  was  not 
the  strongest  factor  in  the  Casey  of  to-day.  Up  out  of  the 

355 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

rugged  and  dormant  soul  had  burst  the  spirit  of  a  race 
embodied  in  one  man.  Casey  was  his  own  audience,  and 
the  light  upon  him  was  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun.  A  night 
ingale  sang  in  his  heart,  and  he  realized  that  this  was  his 
hour.  Here  the  bloody,  hard  years  found  their  reward. 
Not  that  he  had  *wer  wanted  one  or  thought  of  one,  but 
it  had  come — out  of  the  toil,  the  pain,  the  weariness.  So 
his  nerves  tingled,  his  pulses  beat,  his  veins  glowed,  his 
heart  throbbed;  und  all  the  new,  sweet,  young  sensations 
of  a  boy  wildly  reveling  in  the  success  of  his  first  great 
venture,  all  the  vague,  strange,  deep,  complex  emotions 
of  a  man  who  has  become  conscious  of  what  he  is  giving 
to  the  world — these  shook  Casey  by  storm,  and  life  had 
no  more  to  give.  He  knew  that,  whatever  he  was,  what 
ever  this  incomprehensible  driving  spirit  in  him,  whatever 
his  unknown  relation  to  man  and  to  duty,  there  had 
been  given  him  in  the  peril  just  passed,  in  this  wonderful 
ride,  a  gift  splendid  and  divine. 

Casey  rolled  on,  and  the  train  grew  plain  in  his  sight. 
When  perhaps  several  miles  of  track  lay  between  him  and 
the  approaching  engine,  he  concluded  it  was  time  to  get 
ready.  Lifting  one  of  the  heavy  ties,  he  laid  it  in  front 
where  he  could  quickly  shove  it  off  with  his  foot. 

Then  he  stood  up.  It  was  certain  that  he  looked  back 
ward,  but  at  no  particular  thing — just  an  instinctive  glance. 
With  his  foot  on  the  tie  he  steadied  himself  so  that  he  could 
push  it  off  and  leap  instantly  after. 

And  at  that  moment  he  remembered  the  little  book  he 
had  found  on  Beauty  Stanton's  breast,  and  which  contained 
the  letter  to  his  friend  Neale.  Casey  deliberated  in  spite 
of  the  necessity  for  haste.  Then  he  took  the  book  from 
his  pocket. 

"B'gorra,  yez  niver  can  tell,  an'  thim  U.  P.  R.  throopers 
hev  been  known  to  bury  a  mon  widout  searchin'  his  pock 
ets,"  he  said. 

And  he  put  the  little  book  between  the  teeth  that  held 
his  pipe.  Then  he  shoved  off  the  tie  and  leaped. 

356 


CHAPTER  XXX 

NEALE,  aghast  and  full  of  bitter  amaze  and  shame 
at  himself,  fled  from  the  gambling-hall  where  he  had 
struck  Beauty  Stanton.  How  beside  himself  with  rage  and 
torture  he  had  been!  That  woman  to  utter  Allie  Lee's 
name!  Inconceivable!  Could  she  know  his  story? 

He  tramped  the  dark  streets,  and  the  exercise  and  the 
cool  wind  calmed  him.  Then  the  whistle  of  an  engine 
made  him  decide  to  leave  Benton  at  once,  on  the  first  train 
out.  Hurriedly  he  got  his  baggage  and  joined  the  throng 
which  even  at  that  late  hour  was  making  for  the  station. 

A  regret  that  was  pain  burned  deep  in  him — somehow 
inexplicable.  He,  like  other  men,  had  done  things  that 
must  be  forgotten,  What  fatality  in  the  utterance  of  a 
single  name — what  power  to  flay! 

From  a  window  of  an  old  coach  he  looked  out  upon  the 
dim  lights  and  pale  tent  shapes. 

"The  last — of  Benton!  .  .  .  Thank  God!"  he  murmured, 
brokenly.  Well  he  realized  how  Providence  had  watched 
over  him  there.  And  slowly  the  train  moved  out  upon 
the  dark,  windy  desert. 

It  took  Neale  nearly  forty-eight  hours  to  reach  the  new 
camp — Roaring  City.  A  bigger  town  than  Benton  had 
arisen,  and  more  was  going  up — tents  and  clapboard  houses, 
sheds  and  cabins — the  same  motley  jumble  set  under  beet 
ling  red  Utah  bluffs. 

Neale  found  lodgings.  Being  without  food  or  bed  or 
wash  for  two  days  and  nights  was  not  helpful  to  the  task 
he  must  accomplish — the  conquering  of  his  depression. 
He  ate  and  slept  long,  and  the  following  day  he  took  time 

357 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

to  make  himself  comfortable  and  presentable  before  he 
sallied  forth  to  find  the  offices  of  the  engineer  corps.  Then 
he  walked  on  as  directed,  and  heard  men  talking  of  In 
dian  ambushes  and  troops. 

When  at  length  he  reached  the  headquarters  of  the  en 
gineer  corps  he  was  greeted  with  restraint  by  his  old 
officers  and  associates;  was  surprised  and  at  a  loss  to  under 
stand  their  attitude. 

Even  in  General  Lodge  there  was  a  difference.  Neale 
gathered  at  once  that  something  had  happened  to  put 
out  of  his  chief's  mind  the  interest  that  officer  surely  must 
have  in  Neale's  trip  to  Washington.  And  after  greeting 
him,  the  first  thing  General  Lodge  said  gave  warrant  to 
the  rumors  of  trouble  with  Indians. 

"My  train  was  to  have  been  ambushed  at  Deep  Cut," 
he  explained.  "Big  force  of  Sioux.  We  were  amazed  to 
find  them  so  far  west.  It  would  have  been  a  massacre — 
but  for  Casey.  .  .  .  We  have  no  particulars  yet,  for  the  wire 
is  cut.  But  we  know  what  Casey  did.  He  ran  the  gantlet 
of  the  Indians  through  that  cut.  . .  .  He  was  on  a  gravel-car 
running  wild  down-hill.  You  know  the  grade,  Neale.  .  .  . 
Of  course  his  intention  was  to  hold  up  my  train — block  us 
before  we  reached  the  ambushed  cut.  There  must  have 
been  a  broken  brake,  for  he  derailed  the  car  not  half  a  mile 
ahead  of  us.  My  engineer  saw  the  runaway  flat-car  and 
feared  a  collision.  .  .  .  Casy  threw  a  railroad  tie — on  the 
track — in  front  of  him.  .  .  .  We  found  him  under  the  car — 
crushed — dying — ' ' 

General  Lodge's  voice  thickened  and  slowed  a  little.  He 
looked  down.  His  face  appeared  quite  pale. 

Neale  began  to  quiver  in  the  full  presaging  sense  of  a 
revelation. 

"My  engineer,  Tom  Daley,  reached  Casey's  side  just 
the  instant  before  he  died,"  said  General  Lodge,  resuming 
bis  story.  "In  fact,  Daley  was  the  only  one  of  us  who 
did  see  Casey  alive.  .  .  .  Casey's  last  words  were  '  ambush— 
Sooz— Deep  Cut/  and  then  'me  fri'nd  Neale!'  ...  We 

358 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

were  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  ne  meant — that  is,  at 
first.  We  found  Casey  with  this  little  note-book  and  his 
pipe  tight  between  his  teeth." 

The  chief  gave  the  note-book  to  Neale,  who  received  it 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

"You  can  see  the  marks  of  Casey's  teeth  in  the  leather. 
It  was  difficult  to  extract  the  book.  He  held  on  like  grim 
death.  Oh !  Casey  was  grim  death.  .  .  .  We  could  not  pull 
his  black  pipe  out  at  all.  We  left  it  between  his  set  jaws, 
where  it  always  had  been — where  it  belonged.  ...  I  ordered 
him  interred  that  way.  ...  So  they  buried  him  out  there 
along  the  track." 

The  chief's  low  voice  ceased,  and  he  stood  motionless 
a  moment,  his  brow  knotted,  his  eyes  haunted,  yet  bright 
with  a  glory  of  tribute  to  a  hero. 

Neale  heard  the  ticking  of  a  watch  and  the  murmur  of 
the  street  outside.  He  felt  the  soft  little  note-book  in  his 
hand.  And  the  strangest  sensation  shuddered  over  him. 
He  drew  his  breath  sharply. 

When  General  Lodge  turned  again  to  face  him,  Neale 
saw  him  differently — aloof,  somehow  removed,  indistinct. 

"Casey  meant  the  note-book  for  you,"  said  the  general. 
"  It  belonged  to  the  woman,  Beauty  Stanton.  It  contained 
a  letter,  evidently  written  while  she  was  dying.  .  .  .  This 
developed  when  Daley  began  to  read  aloud.  We  all  heard. 
The  instant  I  understood  it  was  a  letter  intended  for  you 
I  took  the  book.  No  more  was  read.  We  were  all  crowded 
round  Daley — curious,  you  know.  There  were  visitors  on 
my  train — and  your  enemy  Lee.  I'm  sorry — but,  no 
matter.  You  see  it  couldn't  be  helped That's  all " 

Neale  was  conscious  of  calamity.  It  lay  in  his  hand. 
"Poor  old  Casey!"  he  murmured.  Then  he  remembered. 
Stanton  dying !  What  had  happened?  He  could  not  trust 
himself  to  read  that  message  before  Lodge,  and,  bowing,  he 
left  the  room. 

But  he  had  to  grope  his  way  through  the  lobby,  so  dim 
had  become  his  sight.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  street 

3S9 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

he  had  lost  his  self-control.  Something  burnt  his  hand. 
It  was  the  little  leather  note-book.  He  had  not  the  nerve 
to  open  it.  What  had  been  the  implication  in  General 
Lodge's  strange  words? 

He  gazed  with  awe  at  the  tooth-marks  on  the  little 
book.  How  had  Casey  come  by  anything  of  Beauty  Stan- 
ton's?  Could  it  be  true  that  she  was  lead? 

Then  again  he  was  accosted  in  the  street.  A  heavy 
hand,  a  deep  voice  arrested  his  progress.  His  eyes,  sweep 
ing  up  from  the  path,  saw  fringed  and  beaded  buckskin,  a 
stalwart  form,  a  bronzed  and  bearded  face,  and  keen,  gray 
eyes  warm  with  the  light  of  gladness.  He  was  gripped  in 
hands  of  iron. 

"Son!  hyar  you  air — an*  it's  the  savin*  of  me!"  ex 
claimed  a  deep,  familiar  voice. 

"  Slingerland!"  cried  Neale,  and  he  grasped  his  old 
friend  as  a  drowning  man  at  an  anchor-rope.  "My  God! 
What  will  happen  next?  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  glad  to  find  you!  .  .  . 
All  these  years!  Slingerland,  I'm  in  trouble!" 

"Son,  I  reckon  I  know,"  replied  the  other. 

Neale  shivered.  Why  did  men  look  at  him  so?  This 
old  trapper  had  too  much  simplicity,  too  big  a  heart,  to 
hide  his  pity. 

"Come!  Somewhere — out  of  the  crowd!"  cried  Neale, 
dragging  at  Slingerland.  "Don't  talk.  Don't  tell  me 
anything.  Wait! .  .  .  I've  a  letter  here — that's  going  to  be 
hell!" 

Neale  stumbled  along  out  of  the  crowded  street,  he  did 
not  know  where,  and  with  death  in  his  soul  he  opened 
Beauty  Stanton's  book.  And  he  read: 

You  called  me  that  horrible  name.  You  struck  me.  You've 
killed  me.  I  lie  here  dying.  Oh,  Neale!  I'm  dying — and  I  loved 
you.  I  came  to  you  to  prove  it.  If  you  had  not  been  so  blind 
— so  stupid!  My  prayer  is  that  some  one  will  see  this  I'm  writing 
— and  take  it  to  you. 

Ancliffe  brought  your  sweetheart,  Allie  Lee,  to  me — to  hide 
her  from  Durade.  He  told  me  to  find  you  and  then  he  died. 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

He  had  been  stabbed  in  saving  her  from  Duradels  gang.  And 
Hough,  too,  was  killed. 

Neale,  I  looked  at  Allie  Lee,  and  then  I  understood  your  ruin. 
You  fool!  She  was  not  dead,  but  alive.  Innocent  and  sweet 
like  an  angel.  Ah!  the  wonder  of  it  in  Benton!  Neale,  she  did 
not  know — did  not  feel  the  kind  of  a  woman  I  am.  She  changed 
me — crucified  me.  She  put  her  face  on  my  breast.  And  I  have 
that  touch  with  me  now,  blessed,  softening. 

I  locked  her  in  a  room  and  hurried  out  to  find  you.  For  the 
first  time  in  years  I  had  a  happy  moment.  I  understood  why 
you  had  never  cared  for  me.  I  respected  you.  Then  I  would 
have  gone  to  hell  for  you.  It  was  my  joy  that  you  must  owe  your 
happiness  to  me — that  I  would  be  the  one  to  give  you  back  Allie 
Lee  and  hope,  and  the  old,  ambitious  life.  Oh,  I  gloried  in  my 
power.  It  was  sweet.  You  would  owe  every  kiss  of  hers,  every 
moment  of  pride,  to  the  woman  you  had  repulsed.  That  was  to 
be  my  revenge. 

And  I  found  you,  and  in  the  best  hour  of  my  bitter  life — when 
I  had  risen  above  the  woman  of  shame,  above  thought  of  self — 
then  you,  with  hellish  stupidity,  imagined  I  was  seeking  you — you 
for  myself!  Your  annoyance,  your  scorn,  robbed  me  of  my  wits. 
I  could  not  tell  you.  I  could  only  speak  her  name  and  bid  you 
come. 

You  branded  me  before  that  grinning  crowd,  you  struck  me! 
And  the  fires  of  hell — my  hell — burst  in  my  heart.  I  ran  out  of 
there — mad  to  kill  your  soul — to  cause  you  everlasting  torment. 
I  swore  I  would  give  that  key  of  Allie  Lee's  room  to  the  first  man 
who  entered  my  house. 

The  first  man  was  Larry  Red  King.  He  was  drunk.  He 
looked  wild.  I  welcomed  him.  I  sent  him  to  her  room. 

But  Larry  King  was  your  friend.  I  had  forgotten  that.  He 
came  out  with  her.  He  was  sober  and  terrible.  Like  the  mad 
woman  that  I  was  I  rushed  at  him  to  tear  her  away.  He  shot 
me.  I  see  his  eyes  now.  But  oh,  thank  God,  he  shot  me!  It 
was  a  deliverance. 

I  fell  on  the  stairs,  but  I  saw  that  flaming-faced  devil  kill  four 
of  Durade's  men.  He  got  Allie  Lee  out.  Later  I  heard  he  had 
been  killed  and  that  Durade  had  caught  the  girl. 

Neale,  hurry  to  find  her.  Kill  that  Spaniard.  No  man  could 
tell  why  he  has  spared  her,  but  I  tell  you  he  will  not  spare  her 
long. 

24  *OT 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

Don't  ever  forget  Hough  or  Ancliffe  or  that  terrible  cow 
boy.  Ancliffe's  death  was  beautiful.  I  am  cold.  It's  hard 
to  write.  All  is  darkening.  I  hear  the  moan  of  wind.  For 
give  me !  Neale,  the  difference  between  me  and  Allie  Lee — 
is  a  good  man's  love.  Men  are  blind  to  woman's  agony. 
She  laid  her  cheek  here— on  my  breast — I — who  always 
wanted  a  child.  I  shall  die  alone.  No — I  think  God  is  here. 
There  is  some  one!  After  all,  I  was  a  woman.  Neale 
lorgive — » 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

there?"  echoe(*  McDermott,  as  he  wiped  the 
clammy  sweat  from  his  face.     B'gosh,  I  wor!" 

It  was  half-past  five.  There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual 
number  of  men  on  the  street,  not  so  hurried  and  business 
like  and  merry  as  generally,  and  given  to  collecting  in 
groups,  low-voiced  and  excited. 

General  Lodge  drew  McDermott  inside.  "Come.  You 
need  a  bracer.  Man,  you  look  sick,"  he  said. 

At  the  bar  McDermott's  brown  and  knotty  hand  shook 
as  he  lifted  a  glass  and  gulped  a  drink  of  whisky. 

"Gineral,  I  ain't  the  mon  I  wuz,"  complained  McDer 
mott.  "Casey's  gone!  An'  we  had  hell  wid  the  Injuns 
gittin'  here.  An'  thin  jest  afther  I  stepped  off  the  train — 
it  happened." 

"What  happened?  I've  heard  conflicting  reports.  My 
men  are  out  trying  to  get  news.  Tell  me,  Sandy,"  replied 
the  general,  eagerly. 

"Afther  hearin'  of  Casey's  finish  I  was  shure  needin'  stim 
ulants,"  began  the  Irishman.  "An'  prisintly  I  drhopped 
into  that  Durade's  Palace.  I  had  my  drink,  an'  thin 
went  into  the  big  room  where  the  moosic  wuz.  It  shure 
wuz  a  palace.  A  lot  of  thim  swells  with  frock-coats  wuz 
there.  B'gorra  they  ain't  above  buckin'  the  tiger.  Some  of 
thim  I  knew.  That  Misther  Lee,  wot  wuz  once  a  commis* 
sioner  of  the  U.  P.,  he  wor  there  with  a  party  of  friends. 

"An'  I  happened  to  be  close  by  thim  whin  a  gurl  come 
out.  She  was  shure  purty.  But  thot  sad!  Her  eyes  wor 
tumble  hauntin',  an'  roight  off  I  wanted  to  start  a  foight. 
She  wor  lookin'  fer  Durade,  as  I  seen  afterwards, 

363 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Wai,  the  minnit  that  Lee  seen  the  gurl  he  acted 
strange.  I  wuz  standin'  close  an'  I  went  closer.  'Most 
exthraordinary  rezemblance,'  he  kept  say  in'.  An'  thin  he 
dug  into  his  vest  fer  a  pocket-book,  an'  out  of  that  he 
took  a  locket.  He  looked  at  it — thin  at  the  little  gurl 
who  looked  so  sad.  Roight  off  he  turned  the  color  of  a 
sheet.  'Gintlemen,  look!'  he  sez.  They  all  looked,  an' 
shure  wuz  sthruck  with  somethin'. 

"  'Gintlemen,'  sez  Lee,  'me  wife  left  me  years  ago — 
ran  off  West  wid  a  gambler.  If  she  iver  hed  a  child — 
that  gurl  is  thot  child.  Fer  she's  the  livin'  image  of  me 
wife  nineteen  years  ago!' 

"Some  of  thim  laughed  at  him — some  of  thim  stared. 
But  Lee  wuz  dead  in  earnest  an'  growin'  more  excited 
ivery  minnit.  I  heerd  him  mutter  low :  'My  Gawd !  it 
can't  be !  Her  child !  ...  In  a  gamblin'  hell !  But  that 
face !  .  .  .  Ah !  where  else  could  I  expect  the  child  of 
such  a  mother  ?' 

"An'  Lee  went  closer  to  where  the  gurl  was  waitin'. 
His  party  follered  an'  I  follered  too.  .  .  .  Jest  whin  the 
moosic  sthopped  an'  the  gurl  looked  up — thin  she  seen 
Lee.  Roight  out  he  sthepped  away  from  the  crowd.  He 
wuz  whiter  'n  a  ghost.  An'  the  gurl  she  seemed  para 
lyzed.  Sthrange  it  wor  to  see  how  she  an'  him  looked 
alike  thin. 

"The  crowd  seen  somethin'  amiss,  an*  went  quiet, 
starin'  an*  nudgin'.  .  .  .  Gineral,  dom'  me  if  the  gurl's 
face  didn't  blaze.  I  niver  seen  the  loike.  An'  she  sthepped 
an'  come  straight  fer  Lee.  An'  whin  she  sthopped  she 
wuz  close  enough  to  touch  him.  Her  eyes  wor  great 
burnin'  holes  an'  her  face  shone  somethin'  wonderful. 

"Lee  put  up  a  shakin'  hand. 

"'Gurl,'  he  sez,  'did  yez  iver  'tear  of  Allison  Lee?' 

"An'  all  her  body  seemed  to  lift. 

"  'He  is  my  father !'  she  cried.    'I  am  Allie  Lee !' 

"An'  thin  that  crowd  wuz  split  up  by  a  mon  wot  hur 
ried  through.  He  '<vuz  a  greaser — one  of  thim  dandies  on 

364 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

dress  an'  diamonds — a  handsome,  wicked-lookin'  gambler. 
Seein'  the  gurl,  he  snarled, '  Go  back  there !'  an*  he  pointed. 
She  niver  even  looked  at  him. 

"Some  wan  back  of  me  sez  thot's  Durade.  Wai,  it  was! 
An'  sudden  he  seen  who  the  gurl  wuz  watchin' — Lee. 

"Thot  Durade  turned  green  an'  wild-eyed  an'  stiff. 
But  thot  couldn't  hould  a  candle  to  Lee.  Shure  he  turned 
into  a  fiend.  He  bit  out  a  Spanish  name,  nothin'  loike 
Durade. 

"An*  loike  a  hissin'  snake  Durade  sez,  *  Allison  Lee!' 

"Thin  there  wuz  a  dead-lock  between  thim  two  men, 
wid  the  crowd  waitin'  fer  hell  to  pay.  Life-long  inimies, 
sez  I,  to  meself,  an'  I  hed  the  whole  story. 

"Durade  began  to  limber  up.  Any  wan  what  knows  a 
greaser  would  have  been  lookin'  fer  blood.  'She — wint — 
back — to  yez!'  panted  Durade. 

'"No — thief — Spanish  dog!  I  have  not  seen  her  for 
nineteen  years,'  sez  Lee. 

"The  gurl  spoke  up:  'Mother  is  dead!  Killed  by  In 
juns!' 

"Thin  Lee  cried  out,  'Did  she  leave  him? 

"'Yes,  she  did,'  sez  the  gurl.  'She  wuz  goin'  back. 
Home!  Takin'  me  home.  But  the  caravan  wuz  attacked, 
by  Injuns.  An*  all  but  me  wor  massacred.' 

"Durade  cut  short  the  gurl's  spache.  If  I  iver  seen  a 
^ptoile  it  wuz  thin. 

"'Lee,  they  both  left  me,'  he  hisses.  'I  tracked  them. 
I  lost  the  mother,  but  caught  the  daughter.' 

"Thin  thot  Durade  lost  his  spache  fer  a  minnit,  foamin* 
at  the  mouth  wid  rage.  If  yez  niver  seen  a  greaser  mad 
thin  yez  niver  seen  the  rale  thin'.  His  face  changed  yaller 
an'  ould  an'  wrinkled,  wid  spots  of  red.  His  lip  curled  up 
loike  a  wolf's,  an'  his  eyes — they  wint  down  to  little  black 
points  of  hell's  fire.  He  wuz  crazy. 

' ' '  Look  at  her !'  he  yelled.  '  Allie  Lee !  Flesh  an'  blood 
yez  can't  deny!  Her  baby!  .  .  .  An'  she's  been  my  slave — 
my  dog  to  beat  an'  kick!  She's  been  through  Bentonl 

36S 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

A  toy  fer  the  riff-raff  of  the  camps!  .  .  .  She's  as  vile  an8 
black  an'  lost  as  her  treacherous  mother!' 

"  Allison  Lee  shrunk  under  thot  shame.  But  the  gurll 
Lord!  she  niver  looked  wot  she  was  painted  by  thot  devil. 
She  stood  white  an'  still,  loike  an  angel  above  judgment. 

"Durade  drew  one  of  thim  little  derringers.  An'  sud 
den  he  hild  it  on  Lee,  hissin'  now  in  his  greaser  talk.  I 
niver  seen  sich  hellish  joy  on  a  human  face.  Murder  was 
nothin'  to  thot  look. 

"  Jist  thin  I  seen  Neale  an'  Slingerland,  an',  by  Gawd! 
I  thought  I'd  drop.  They  seemed  to  loom  up.  The  girl 
screamed  wild-loike  an'  she  swayed  about  to  fall.  Neale 
leaped  in  front  of  Lee. 

" '  Durade !'  he  split  out,  an*  dom'  me  if  I  didn't  expect 
to  see  the  roof  fly  off." 

McDermott  wiped  his  moist  face  and  tipped  his  empty 
glass  to  his  lips,  and  swallowed  hard.  His  light-blue  eyes 
held  a  glint. 

"Gineral,"  he  went  on,  "yez  know  Neale.  How  big 
he  is!  Wot  nerve  he's  got!  There  niver  wor  a  mon  his 
equal  on  the  U.  P.  'ceptin'  Casey.  .  .  .  But  me,  nor  any  wan, 
nor  yez,  either,  ever  seen  Neale  loike  he  wuz  tftin.  He 
niver  hesitated  an  inch,  but  wint  roight  fer  Durade.  Any 
dom'  fool,  even  a  crazy  greaser,  would  hev  seen  his  finish 
in  Neale.  Durade  changed  quick  from  hot  to  cold.  An' 
he  shot  Neale. 

"Neale  laughed.  Funny  ringin'  sort  of  laugh,  full  of 
thot  same  joy  Durade  hed  sung  out  to  Lee.  Hate  an' 
love  of  blood  it  wor.  Yez  would  hev  thought  Neale 
felt  wonderful  happy  to  sthop  a  bullet. 

"Thin  his  hand  shot  out  an'  grabbed  Durade.  .  .  .  He 
jerked  him  off  his  feet  an'  swung  him  round.  The  little 
derringer  flew,  an'  Sandy  McDermott  wuz  the  mon  who 
picked  it  up.  It  '11  be  Neale's  whin  I  see  him.  .  .  .  Durade 
jabbered  fer  help  But  no  wan  come.  Thot  big  trapper 
Slingerland  stood  there  with  two  guns,  an'  shure  he  looked 
bad.  Neale  slung  Durade  around,  spillin'  some  fellers  who 

366 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

didn't  dodge  quick,  an'  thin  he  jerked  him  up  back 
wards, 

"An*  Durade  come  up  with  a  long  knife  in  the  one  hand 
he  had  free. 

"Neale  yelled,  'Lee,  take  the  gurl  out!' 

"I  seen  thin  she  hed  fainted  in  Lee's  arms.  He  lifted 
her — moved  away — an*  thin  I  seen  no  more  of  thim. 

"  Durade  made  wild  an'  wicked  lunges  at  Neale,  only 
to  be  jerked  off  his  balance.  I  heerd  the  bones  crack  in 
the  arm  Neale  held.  The  greaser  screamed.  Sudden  he 
wuz  turned  agin,  an'  swung  backwards  so  thot  Neale 
grabbed  the  other  arm — the  wan  wot  held  the  knife.  It 
wuz  a  child  in  the  grasp  of  a  giant.  Neale  shure  looked 
beautiful.  I  niver  wished  so  much  in  me  loife  fer  Casey 
as  thin.  He  would  hev  enjoyed  thot  foight,  fer  he  bragged 
of  his  friendship  fer  Neale.  An' — " 

"Go  on,  man,  end  your  story!"  ordered  the  general, 
breathlessly. 

"Wai,  b'gorra,  there  wuz  more  crackin'  of  bones,  an* 
sich  screams  as  I  niver  heerd  from  a  mon.  Tumble,  blood- 
curdlin'!  .  .  .  Neale  held  both  Durade's  hands  an'  wuz 
squeezin'  thot  knife-handle  so  the  greaser  couldn't  let  go. 

"Thin  Neale  drew  out  thot  hand  of  Durade's — the  wan 
wot  held  the  knife — an'  made  Durade  jab  himself,  low  down ! 
.  .  .  My  Gawd!  how  thot  jenteel  Spaniard  howled!  I  seen 
the  blade  go  in  an'  come  our  red.  Thin  Slingerland  tore 
thim  apart,  an'  the  greaser  fell.  He  warn't  killed.  Mebbe 
he  ain't  goin'  to  croak.  But  he'll  shure  hev  to  1'ave 
Roarin'  City,  an'  he'll  shure  be  a  cripple  fer  loife." 

McDermott  looked  at  the  empty  glass. 

"Thot's  all,  Gineral.  An'  if  it's  jist  the  same  to  yez 
I'll  hev  another  drink." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  mere  sight  of  Warren  Neale  had  transformed  life 
for  Allie  Lee.  The  shame  of  being  forced  to  meet 
degraded  men,  the  pain  from  Durade's  blows,  the  dread 
that  every  hour  he  would  do  the  worst  by  her  or  kill  her, 
the  sudden  and  amazing  recognition  between  her  and  her 
father — these  became  dwarfed  and  blurred  in  the  presence 
of  the  glorious  truth  that  Neale  was  there. 

She  had  recognized  him  with  reeling  senses  and  through 
darkening  eyes.  She  had  seen  him  leap  before  her  father 
to  confront  that  glittering-eyed  Durade.  She  had  neither 
fear  for  him  nor  pity  for  the  Spaniard. 

Sensations  of  falling,  of  being  carried,  of  the  light  and 
dust  and  noise  of  the  street,  of  men  around  her,  of  rooms 
and  the  murmur  of  voices,  of  being  worked  over  and 
spoken  to  by  a  kindly  woman,  of  swallowing  what  was  put 
to  her  mouth,  of  answering  questions,  of  letting  other 
clothes  be  put  upon  her;  she  was  as  if  in  a  trance,  aware 
of  all  going  on  about  her,  but  with  consciousness 
riveted  upon  one  stunning  fact — his  presence.  When  she 
was  left  alone  this  state  gradually  wore  away,  and  there 
remained  a  throbbing,  quivering  suspense  of  love.  Her 
despair  had  ended.  The  spirit  that  had  upheld  her  through 
all  the  long,  dark  hours  had  reached  its  fulfilment. 

She  lay  on  a  couch  in  a  small  room  curtained  off  from 
another,  the  latter  large  and  light,  and  from  which  came 
a  sound  of  low  voices.  She  heard  the  quick  tread  of  men; 
a  door  opened. 

"Lee,  I  congratulate  you.  A  narrow  escape!"  exclaimed 
a  deep  voice,  with  something  sharp,  authoritative  in  it. 

368 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"General  Lodge,  it  was  indeed  a  narrow  shave  for  me," 
replied  another  voice,  low  and  husky. 

Allie  slowly  sat  up,  with  the  dreamy  waiting  abstraction 
less  strong.  Her  father,  Allison  Lee,  and  General  Lodge, 
Neale's  old  chief,  were  there  in  the  other  room. 

"Neale  almost  killed  Durade!  Broke  him!  Cut  him 
all  up!"  said  the  general,  with  agitation.  "I  had  it  from 
McDermott,  one  of  my  spikers — a  reliable  man.  .  .  .  Neale 
was  shot — perhaps  cut,  too.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't  seem  to 
know  it." 

Allie  sprang  up,  transfixed  and  thrilling. 

"Neale  almost  killed — him!"  echoed  Allison  Lee,  hoarse 
ly.  Then  followed  a  sound  of  a  chair  falling. 

""Indeed,  Allison,  it's  true,"  broke  in  a  strange  voice. 
"The  street's  full  of  men— all  talking— all  stirred  up." 

Other  men  entered  the  room. 

"Is  Neale  here?"  queried  General  Lodge,  sharply. 

"They're  trying  to  hold  him  up — in  the  office.  The 
boys  want  to  pat  him  on  the  back.  .  .  .  Durade  was  not, 
liked,"  replied  some  one. 

"Is  Neale  badly  hurt?" 

"I  don't  know.     He  looked  it.    He  was  all  bloody." 

"Colonel  Dillon,  did  you  see  Neale?"  went  on  the  sharp, 
eager  voice. 

"Yes.  He  seemed  dazed — wild.  Probably  badly  hurt. 
Yet  he  moved  steadily.  No  one  could  stop  him,"  an 
swered  another  strange  voice. 

"Ah!  here  comes  McDermott!"  exclaimed  General 
Lodge. 

Allie's  ears  throbbed  to  a  slow,  shuffling,  heavy  tread. 
Her  consciousness  received  the  fact  of  Neale's  injury,  but 
her  heart  refused  to  accept  it  as  perilous.  God  could  not 
mock  her  faith  by  a  last  catastrophe. 

"Sandy — you've  seen  Neale?" 

Allie  loved  this  sharp,  keen  voice  for  its  note  of  dread. 

"Shure.  B'gorra,  yez  couldn't  hilp  seein'  him.  He's  as 
big  as  a  hill  an'  his  shirt's  as  red  as  Casey's  red  wan.  I 

369 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

wint  to  give  him  the  little  gun  wot  Durade  pulled  on  him. 
Dom'  me!  he  looked  roight  at  me  an'  niver  seen  me,"  re 
plied  the  Irishman. 

"Lee,  you  will  see  Neale?"  queried  General  Lodge. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"No,"  presently  came  a  cold  reply.  "It  is  not  neces 
sary.  He  saved  me — injury  perhaps.  I  am  grateful. 
I'll  reward  him." 

"How?"  rang  General  Lodge's  voice. 

"Gold,  of  course.  Neale  was  a  gambler.  Probably  he 
had  a  grudge  against  this  Durade.  ...  I  need  not  meet 
Neale,  it  seems.  I  am  somewhat — overwrought.  I  wish 
to  spare  myself  further  excitement." 

"Lee  —  listen!"  returned  General  Lodge,  violently. 
"  Neale  is  a  splendid  young  man — the  nerviest,  best  engineer 
I  ever  knew.  I  predicted  great  things  for  him.  They  have 
come  true." 

"That  doesn't  interest  me." 

"You'll  hear  it,  anyhow.  He  saved  the  life  of  this  girl 
who  has  turned  out  to  be  your  daughter.  He  took  care  of 
her.  He  loved  her — was  engaged  to  marry  her.  .  .  .  Then 
he  lost  her.  And  after  that  he  was  half  mad.  It  nearly 
ruined  him." 

"I  do  not  credit  that.  It  was  gambling,  drink — and 
bad  women  that  ruined  him." 

"No!" 

"But,  pardon  me,  General.  If — as  you  intimate — there 
was  an  attachment  between  him  and  my  unfortunate 
child,  would  he  have  become  an  associate  of  gamblers  and 
vicious  women?" 

"He  would  not.  The  nature  of  his  fury,  the  retribution 
he  visited  upon  this  damned  Spaniard,  prove  the  manner 
of  man  he  is." 

"Wild  indeed.  But  hardly  from  a  sense  of  loyalty. 
These  camps  breed  blood-spillers.  I  heard  you  say  that." 

"You'll  hear  me  say  something  more,  presently,"  re 
torted  the  other,  with  heat  scarcely  controlled.  "But 

370 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

we're  wasting  time.  I  don't  insist  that  you  see  Neale 
That's  your  affair.  It  seems  to  me  the  least  you  could  do 
would  be  to  thank  him.  I  certainly  advise  you  not  to 
offer  him  gold.  I  do  insist,  however,  that  you  let  him  see 
the  girl." 

"No!" 

"But,  man.  .  .  .  Say,  McDermott,  go  fetch  Neale  ic 
here." 

Allie  Lee  heard  all  this  strange  talk  with  consternation. 
An  irresistible  magnet  drew  her  toward  those  curtains, 
which  she  grasped  with  trembling  hands,  ready,  but  not 
able,  to  part  them  and  enter  the  room.  It  seemed  that  in 
there  was  a  friend  of  Neale's  whom  she  was  going  to  love, 
and  an  enemy  whom  she  was  going  to  hate.  As  for  Neale 
seeing  her — at  once — only  death  could  rob  her  of  that. 

"General  Lodge,  I  have  no  sympathy  for  Neale,"  came 
the  cold  voice  of  Allison  Lee. 

There  was  no  reply.  Some  one  coughed.  Footsteps* 
sounded  in  the  hallway,  and  a  hum  of  distant  voices. 

"You  forget,"  continued  Lee,  "what  happened  not  many\ 
hours  ago  when  your  train  was  saved  by  that  dare-devil 
Casey — the  little  book  held  tight  in  his  locked  teeth — the 
letter  meant  for  this  Neale  from  one  of  Benton's  camp- 
women.  .  .  .  Your  engineer  read  enough.  You  heard.  I 
heard.  ...  A  letter  from  a  dying  woman.  She  accused 
Neale  of  striking  her — of  killing  her.  .  .  .  She  said  she  was 
dying,  but  she  loved  him.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  that, 
General  Lodge?" 

"Yes,  alas!  .  .  .  Lee,  I  don't  deny  that.    But—" 

"There  are  no  buts." 

"Lee,  you're  hard,  hard  as  steel.  Appearances  seem 
against  Neale.  I  don't  seek  to  extenuate  'them.  But  I 
know  men.  Neale  might  have  fallen — it  seems  he  must 
have.  These  are  terrible  times.  In  anger  or  drink  Neale 
might  have  struck  this  woman.  .  .  .  But  kill  her —  No!" 

A  gleam  pierced  Allie  Lee's  dark  bewilderment.  They 
meant  Beauty  Stanton,  that  beautiful,  fair  woman  with 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

such  a  white,  soft  bosom  and  such  sad  eyes — she  wkom 
Larry  King  had  shot.  What  a  tangle  of  fates  and  livesl 
She  could  tell  them  why  Beauty  Stanton  was  dying.  Then 
other  words,  like  springing  fire,  caught  Allie's  thought,  and 
a  sickening  ripple  of  anguish  convulsed  her.  They  be 
lieved  Beauty  Stanton  had  loved  Neale — had —  Allie 
would  have  died  before  admitting  that  last  thought  to  her 
consciousness.  For  a  second  the  room  turned  black.  Her 
hold  on  the  curtains  kept  her  from  falling.  With  frantic 
and  terrible  earnestness — the  old  dominance  Neale  had 
acquired  over  her — she  clung  to  the  one  truth  that  mat 
tered.  She  loved  Neale — belonged  to  him — and  he  was 
there !  That  they  were  about  to  meet  again  was  as  strange 
and  wonderful  a  thing  as  had  ever  happened.  What  had 
she  not  endured?  What  must  he  have  gone  through? 
,The  fiery,  stinging  nature  of  her  new  and  sudden  pain  she 
could  not  realize. 

Again  the  strong  speech  became  distinct  to  her. 

"...  You'll  stay  here — and  you,  Dillon.  .  .  .  Don't 
jBny  one  leave  this  room.  .  .  .  Lee,  you  can  leave,  if  you 
want.  But  well  see  Neale,  and  so  will  Allie  Lee." 

Allie  spread  the  curtains  and  stood  there.  No  one  saw 
her.  All  the  men  faced  the  door  through  which  sounded 
slow,  heavy  tread  of  boots.  An  Irishman  entered.  Then 
a  tall  man.  Allie's  troubled  soul  suddenly  calmed.  She 
saw  Neale. 

Slowly  he  advanced  a  few  steps.  Another  man  en 
tered,  and  Allie  knew  him  by  his  buckskin  garb.  Neale 
turned,  his  face  in  the  light.  And  a  poignant  cry  leaped  up 
from  Allie's  heart  to  be  checked  on  her  lips.  Was  this  her* 
young  and  hopeful  and  splendid  lover?  She  recognized 
him,  yet  now  did  not  know  him.  He  stood  bareheaded, 
and  her  swift,  all-embracing  glance  saw  the  gray  over  his 
temples,  and  the  eyes  that  looked  out  from  across  the  bor 
der  of  a  dark  hell,  and  a  face  white  as  death  and  twitching 
with  spent  passion. 

"Mr. — Lee,"  he  panted,  very  low,  and  the  bloody  patch 

172 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

on  his  shirt  heaved  with  his  breath,  "my  only — regret — is 
— I  didn't — think  to  make — Durade — tell  the  truth.  .  .  . 
He  lied.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to — revenge  himself — on  Allie's 
mother — through  Allie.  .  .  .  What  he  said — about  Allie — 
was  a  lie — as  black  as  his  heart.  He  meant  evil — for  her. 
But — somehow  she  was  saved.  He  was  a  tiger — playing — 
and  he  waited — too  long.  You  must  realize — her  innocence 
— and  understand.  God  has  watched  over  Allie  Lee!  It 
was  not  luck — nor  accident.  But  innocence!  .  .  .  Hough 
died  to  save  her!  Then  Ancliffe!  Then  my  old  friend — 
Larry  King!  These  men — broken — gone  to  hell — out 
here — felt  an  innocence  that  made  them — mad — as  I  have 
just  been.  .  .  .  That  is  proof — if  you  need  it.  ...  Men  of 
ruined  lives — could  not  rise — and  die — as  they  did — victims 
of  a  false  impression — of  innocence.  .  .  .  They  knew!" 

Neale's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  his  eyes  intent  to  read 
belief  in  the  cold  face  of  Allison  Lee. 

"I  thank  you,  Neale,  for  your  service  to  me  and  your, 
defense  of  her,"  he  said.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Sir— I— I—" 

"Can  I  reward  you  in  any  way?" 

The  gray  burned  out  of  Neale's  face.  "I  ask — nothing 
— except  that  you  believe  me." 

Lee  did  not  grant  this,  nor  was  there  any  softening  of 
his  cold  face. 

"I  would  like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,"  he  said* 
"General  Lodge  here  informed  me  that  you  saved  my — 
my  daughter's  life  long  ago.  .  .  .  Can  you  tell  me  what  be 
came  of  her  mother?" 

"She  was  in  the  caravan — massacred  by  Sioux,"  replied 
Neale.  "I  saw  her  buried.  Her  grave  is  not  so  many 
miles  from  here." 

Then  a  tremor  changed  Allison  Lee's  expression.  He 
turned  away  an  instant;  his  hand  closed  tight;  he  bit  his 
lips.  This  evidence  of  feeling  in  him  relaxed  the  stony 
scrutiny  of  the  watchers,  and  they  shifted  uneasily  on 
their  feet. 

373 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

Allie  stood  watching — waiting,  with  her  heart  at  her  lips. 

" Where  did  you  take  my  daughter?"  queried  Lee,  pres 
ently. 

"To  the  home  of  a  trapper.  My  friend — Slingerland," 
replied  Neale,  indicating  the  buckskin-clad  figure.  "She 
fived  there — slowly  recovering.  You  don't  know  that  she 
lost  her  mind — for  a  while.  But  she  recovered.  .  .  .  And 
during  an  absence  of  Slingerland's — she  was  taken  away/' 

"Were  you  and  she — sweethearts?" 

"Yes." 

"And  engaged  to  marry?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Neale,  dreamily. 

"That  cannot  be  now." 

"I  understand.     I  didn't  expect— I  didn't  think.  .  .  ." 

Allie  Lee  had  believed  many  times  that  her  heart  was 
breaking,  but  now  she  knew  it  had  never  broken  till  then. 
Why  did  he  not  turn  to  see  her  waiting  there — stricken 
motionless  and  voiceless,  wild  to  give  the  lie  to  those  cold, 
strange  words? 

"Then,  Neale — if  you  will  not  accept  anything  from  me, 
let  us  terminate  this  painful  interview,"  said  Allison  Lee. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  only  wanted  to  tell  you — and  ask  to 
see — Allie — a  moment,"  replied  Neale. 

"No.  It  might  cause  a  breakdown.  I  don't  want  to 
risk  anything  that  might  prevent  my  taking  the  next 
train  with  her." 

"  Going  to  take  her— back  East?"  asked  Neale,  as  if  talk 
ing  to  himself. 

"Certainly." 

"Then — I — won't  see  her!"  Neale  murmured,  dazedly. 

At  this  juncture  General  Lodge  stepped  out.  His  face 
was  dark,  his  mouth  stern. 

His  action  caused  a  breaking  of  the  strange,  vise-like 
clutch — the  mute  and  motionless  spell — that  had  fallen 
upon  Allie.  She  felt  the  gathering  of  tremendous  forces 
in  her;  in  an  instant  she  would  show  these  stupid  men 
the  tumult  of  a  woman's  heart. 

374 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Lee,  be  generous,"  spoke  up  General  Lodge,  feelingly 
^Let  Neale  see  the  girl." 

"I  said  no!"  snapped  Lee. 

"But  why  not,  in  Heaven's  name?" 

"Why?    I  told  you  why,"  declared  Lee,  passionately. 

"But,  Lee — that  implication  may  not  be  true.  We 
didn't  read  all  that  letter,"  protested  General  Lodge. 

"Ask  him?" 

Then  the  general  turned  to  Neale.  "Boy — tell  me— 
did  this  Stanton  woman  love  you — did  you  strike  hen 
Did  you — "  The  general's  voice  failed. 

Neale  faced  about  with  a  tragic  darkening  of  his  face, 
c'To  my  shame — it  is  true,"  he  said,  clearly. 

Then  Allie  Lee  swept  forward.     "Ofc,  Neale!" 

He  seemed  to  rise  and  leap  at  once.  And  she  ran  straight 
into  his  arms.  No  man,  no  trouble,  no  mystery,  no  dis 
honor,  no  barrier — nothing  could  have  held  her  back  the 
instant  she  saw  how  the  sight  of  her,  how  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  had  transformed  Neale.  For  o-  e  tumultuous,  glori-r 
ous,  terrible  moment  she  clung  to  his  neck,  blind,  her  heart 
bursting.  Then  she  fell  back  with  hands  seeking  her! 
breast. 

"I  heard!"  she  cried.  "I  know  nothing  of  Beauty 
Stanton's  letter.  .  .  .  But  you  didn't  shoot  her.  It  was 
Larry.  I  saw  him  do  it." 

"Allie!"  he  whispered. 

At  last  he  had  realized  her  actual  presence,  the  safety 
of  her  body  and  soul;  and  all  that  had  made  him  strange 
and  old  arid  grim  and  sad  vanished  in  a  beautiful  trans 
figuration. 

"You  know  Larry  did  it!"  implored  Allie.  "Tell  them 
so." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  replied.    "But  I  did  worse.    I—" 

She  saw  him  shaken  by  an  agony  of  remorse;  and  that 
agony  was  communicated  to  her. 

"Neale!  she  loved  you?" 

He  bowed  his  head. 

375 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"0/z/"  Her  cry  was  almost  mute,  full  of  an  unutterable 
realization  of  tragic  fatality  for  her.  "  And  you — you — " 

Allison  Lee  strode  between  them  facing  Neale.  "See! 
She  knows  .  .  .  and  if  you  would  spare  her — go!"  he  ex 
claimed. 

"She  knows — what?"  gasped  Neale,  in  a  frenzy  between 
doubt  and  certainty. 

Allie  felt  a  horrible,  nameless,  insidious  sense  of  falsity — 
a  nightmare  unreality — an  intangible  Neale,  fated,  drifting 
away  from  her. 

"Good-by— Allie!  .  .  .  Bless  you!  I'll  be— happy- 
knowing — you're — "  He  choked,  and  the  tears  streamed 
down  his  face.  It  was  a  face  convulsed  by  renunciation, 
not  by  guilt.  Whatever  he  had  done,  it  was  not  base. 

11  Don't  let  me — go!  .  .  .  I — forgive  you!"  she  burst  out. 
jShe  held  out  her  arms.  "There's  no  one  in  the  world  but 
your 

But  Neale  plunged  away,  upheld  by  Slingerland,  and 
Allie 's  world  grew  suddenly  empty  and  black. 

The  train  swayed  and  creaked  along  through  the  night 
with  chac  strain  and  effort  which  told  of  up-grade.  The 
oil-lamps  burned  dimly  in  corners  of  the  coach.  There 
were  soldiers  ar  open  windows  looking  out.  There  were 
passengers  asleep  sitting  up  and  lying  down  and  huddled 
over  their  baggage. 

But  Allie  Lee  was  not  asleep.  She  lay  propped  up  with 
pillows  and  blankets,  covered  by  a  heavy  coat.  Her  win 
dow  was  open,  and  a  cool  desert  wind  softly  blew  her  hair. 
She  stared  out  into  the  night,  and  the  wheels  seemed  to  be 
grinding  over  her  crushed  heart. 

It  was  late.  An  old  moon,  misshapen  and  pale,  shone 
low  down  over  a  dark,  rugged  horizon.  Clouds  hid  the 
stars.  The  desert  void  seemed  weirdly  magnified  by  the 
wan  light,  and  all  that  shadowy  waste,  silent,  lonely,  bleak, 
called  out  to  Allie  Lee  the  desolation  of  her  soul.  For 
what  had  she  been  saved  ?  The  train  creaked  on,  and  every 

376 


THE   U.   P.   TRAIL 

foot  added  to  her  woe.  Her  unquenchable  spirit,  pure  as 
a  white  flame  that  had  burned  so  wonderfully  through  the 
months  of  her  peril,  flickered  now  that  her  peril  ceased  to 
be.  She  had  no  fount  of  emotion  left  to  draw  on,  else  she 
would  have  hated  this  creaking  train. 

It  moved  on.  And  there  loomed  bold  outlines  of  rock 
and  ridge  familiar  to  her.  They  had  been  stamped  upon 
her  memory  by  the  strain  of  her  lonely  wanderings  along  that 
very  road.  She  knew  every  rod  of  the  way,  dark,  lonely, 
wild  as  it  was.  In  the  midst  of  that  stark  space  lay  the 
spot  where  Benton  had  been.  A  spot  lost  in  the  immensity 
of  the  desert.  If  she  had  been  asleep  she  would  have 
awakened  while  passing  there.  There  was  not  a  light. 
Flat  patches  and  pale  gleams,  a  long,  wan  length  of  bare 
street,  shadows  everywhere — these  marked  Benton's  grave. 

Allie  stared  with  strained  eyes.  They  were  there — in 
the  blackness — those  noble  men  who  had  died  for  her  in 
vain.  No — not  in  vain!  She  breathed  a  prayer  for  them 
— a  word  of  love  for  Larry.  Larry,  the  waster  of  life,  yet 
the  faithful,  the  symbol  of  brotherhood.  As  long  as  she 
lived  she  would  see  him  stalk  before  her  with  his  red, 
blazing  fire,  his  magnificent  effrontery,  his  supreme  will. 
He,  who  had  been  the  soul  of  chivalry,  the  meekest  of  men 
before  a  woman,  the  inheritor  of  a  reverence  for  woman 
hood,  had  ruthlessly  shot  out  of  his  way  that  wonderful 
white-armed  Beauty  Stanton. 

She,  too,  must  lie  there  in  the  shadow.  Allie  shivered 
with  the  cool  desert  wind  that  blew  in  her  face  from  the 
shadowy  spaces.  She  shut  her  eyes  to  hide  the  dim  pass 
ing  traces  of  terrible  Benton  and  the  darkness  that  hid 
the  lonely  graves. 

The  train  moved  on  and  on,  leaving  what  had  been 
Benton  far  behind;  and  once  more  Allie  opened  her  weary 
eyes  to  the  dim,  obscure  reaches  of  the  desert.  Her  heart 
beat  very  slowly  under  its  leaden  weight,  its  endless  pang. 
Her  blood  flowed  at  low  ebb.  She  felt  the  long-forgotten 
recurrence  of  an  old,  morbid  horror,  like  a  poison  lichen 
23  377 


THE   U.    P.  TRAIL 

fastening  upon  the  very  spring  of  life.  It  passed  and  came 
again,  and  left  her  once  more.  Her  thoughts  wandered 
back  along  the  night  track  she  had  traversed,  until  again 
her  ears  were  haunted  by  that  strange  sound  which  had 
given  Roaring  City  its  name.  She  had  been  torn  away 
from  hope,  love,  almost  life  itself.  Where  was  Neale? 
He  had  turned  from  her,  obedient  to  Allison  Lee  and  the 
fatal  complexity  and  perverseness  of  life.  The  vindication 
of  her  spiritual  faith  and  the  answer  to  her  prayers  lay  in 
the  fact  that  she  had  been  saved;  but  rather  than  to  be 
here  in  this  car,  daughter  of  a  rich  father,  but  separated 
from  Neale,  she  would  have  preferred  to  fill  one  of  the 
nameless  graves  in  Benton. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  sun  set  pale-gold  and  austere  as  Neale  watched 
the  train  bear  Allie  Lee  away.  No  thought  of  him 
self  entered  into  that  solemn  moment  of  happiness.  Allie 
Lee — alive — safe — her  troubles  ended — on  her  way  home 
with  her  father!  The  long  train  wound  round  the  bold 
blufl  and  at  last  was  gone.  For  Neale  the  moment  held 
something  big,  final.  A  phase — a  part  of  his  life  ended 
there. 

"Son,  it's  over,"  said  Slingerland,  who  watched  with 
him.  "Allie's  gone  home — back  to  whar  she  belongs — to 
come  into  her  own.  Thank  God!  An'  you — why  this 
day  turns  you  back  to  whar  you  was  once.  .  .  .  Allie  owes 
her  life  to  you  an'  her  father's  life.  Think,  son,  of  these 
hyar  times — how  much  wuss  it  might  hev  been." 

Neale's  sense  of  thankfulness  was  unutterable.  Pas 
sively  he  went  with  Slingerland,  silent  and  gentle.  The 
trapper  dressed  his  wounds,  tended  him,  kept  men  away 
from  him,  and  watched  by  him  as  if  he  were  a  sick 
child. 

Neale  suffered  only  the  weakness  following  the  action  and 
stress  of  great  passion.  His  mind  seemed  full  of  beautiful 
solemn  bells  of  blessing,  resonant,  ringing  the  wonder  of 
an  everlasting  unchangeable  truth.  Night  fell — the  dark 
ness  thickened — the  old  trapper  kept  his  vigil — and  Neale 
sank  to  sleep,  and  the  sweet,  low-toned  bells  claimed  him 
*n  his  dreams. 

How  strange  for  Neale  to  greet  a  dawn  without  hatred! 
He  and  Slingerland  had  breakfast  together. 

379 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Son,  will  you  go  into  the  hills  with  me?"  asked  the 
old  trapper. 

"Yes,  some  day,  when  the  railroad's  built,"  replied 
Neale,  thoughtfully. 

Slingerland's  keen  eyes  quickened.  "But  the  railroad's 
about  done — an'  you  need  a  vacation,"  he  insisted. 

"Yes,"  Neale  answered,  dreamily. 

"Son,  mebbe  you  ought  to  wait  awhile.  You're  packin' 
a  bullet  somewhar  in  your  carcass." 

"It's  here,"  said  Neale,  putting  his  hand  to  his  breast, 
high  up  toward  the  shoulder.  "I  feel  it — a  dull,  steady, 
weighty  pain.  .  .  .  But  that's  nothing.  I  hope  I  always 
have  it." 

"Wai,  I  don't.  .  .  .  An',  son,  you  ain't  never  goin'  back 
to  drink  an'  cards — an'  all  thet  hell?  .  .  .  Not  now!" 

Neale's  smile  was  a  promise,  and  the  light  of  it  was  in 
stantly  reflected  on  the  rugged  face  of  the  trapper. 

"Reckon  I  needn't  asked  thet.  Wai,  I'll  be  sayin'  good- 
by.  .  .  .  You  kin  expect  me  back  some  day.  ...  To  see  the 
meetin'  of  the  rails  from  east  an'  west — an'  to  pack  you 
off  to  my  hills." 

Neale  rode  out  of  Roaring  City  on  the  work-train,  sit* 
>ting  on  a  flat-car  with  a  crowd  of  hairy-breasted,  red- 
shirted  laborers. 

That  train  carried  hundreds  of  men,  tons  of  steel  rails, 
thousands  of  ties;  and  also  it  was  equipped  to  feed  the 
workers  and  to  fight  Indians.  It  ran  to  the  end  of  the 
rails,  about  forty  miles  out  of  Roaring  City. 

Neale  sought  out  Reilly,  the  boss.  This  big  Irishman 
was  in  the  thick  of  the  start  of  the  day — which  was  like 
a  battle.  Neale  waited  in  the  crowd,  standing  there  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  with  the  familiar  bustle  and  color  strong  as 
wine  to  his  senses.  At  last  Reilly  saw  him  and  shoved  out 
a  huge  paw. 

"Hullo,  Neale!  I'm  glad  to  see  ye.  ...  They  tell  me  ye 
did  a  dom'  foine  job," 

380 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Reilly,  I  need  work,"  said  Neale. 

"But,  mon — ye  was  shot!"  ejaculated  the  boss. 

"I'm  all  right." 

"Ye  look  thot  an'  no  mistake.  .  .  .  Shure,  now,  ye  ain't 
serious  about  work?  You — that's  chafe  of  all  thim  en 
gineer  jobs?" 

"I  want  to  work  with  my  hands.  Let  me  heave  ties  or 
carry  rails  or  swing  a  sledge — for  just  a  few  days.  I've  ex 
plained  to  General  Lodge.  It's  a  kind  of  vacation  for  me." 

Reilly  gazed  with  keen,  twinkling  eyes  at  Neale.  "Ye 
can't  be  drunk  an'  look  sober." 

"Reilly,  I'm  sober — and  in  dead  earnest,"  appealed 
Neale.  "I  want  to  go  back — be  in  the  finish — to  lay 
some  rails — drive  some  spikes." 

The  boss  lost  his  humorous,  quizzing  expression.  "Shure 
— shure,"  replied  Reilly,  as  if  he  saw,  but  failed  to  com 
prehend.  "Ye're  on.  .  .  .  An'  more  power  to  ye!" 

He  sent  Neale  out  with  the  gang  detailed  to  heave  rail 
road  ties. 

A  string  of  flat-cars,  loaded  with  rails  and  ties,  stood  on 
the  track  where  the  work  of  yesterday  had  ended.  Be 
yond  stretched  the  road-bed,  yellow,  level,  winding  as 
far  as  eye  could  see.  The  sun  beat  down  hot;  the  dry, 
scorching  desert  breeze  swept  down  from  the  bare  hills, 
across  the  waste;  dust  flew  up  in  puffs;  uprooted  clumps1 
of  sage,  like  balls,  went  rolling  along;  and  everywhere  the 
veils  of  heat  rose  from  the  sun-baked  earth. 

"Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!"  rang  out  a  cheery  voice.  And 
Neale  remembered  Casey. 

Neale's  gang  was  put  to  carrying  ties.  Neale  got  hold 
of  the  first  tie  thrown  off  the  car. 

"Phwat  the  hell's  ye're  hurry!"  protested  his  partner. 
This  fellow  was  gnarled  and  knotted,  brick-red  in  color, 
with  face  a  network  of  seams,  and  narrow,  sun -burnt 
slits  for  eyes.  He  answered  to  the  name  of  Pat. 

They  carried  the  tie  out  to  the  end  of  the  rails  and 
dropped  it  on  the  level  road-bed.  Men  there  set  it  straight 

381 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

and  tamped  the  gravel  around  it.  Neale  and  his  partner 
went  back  for  another,  passing  a  dozen  couples  carrying 
ties  forward.  Behind  these  staggered  the  rows  of  men  bur 
dened  with  the  heavy  iron  rails. 

So  the  day's  toil  began. 

Pat  had  glanced  askance  at  Neale,  and  then  had  made 
dumb  signs  to  his  fellow-laborers,  indicating  his  hard  lot 
in  being  yoked  to  this  new  wild  man  on  the  job.  But  his 
ridicule  soon  changed  to  respect.  Presently  he  offered  his 
gloves  to  Neale.  They  were  refused. 

"But,  fri'nd,  ye  ain't  tough  loike  me,"  he  protested. 

"Pat,  they'll  put  you  to  bed  to-night — if  you  stay  with 
aie,"  replied  Neale. 

"The  hell  ye  say!    Come  on,  thin!" 

At  first  Neale  had  no  sensations  of  heat,  weariness, 
thirst,  or  pain.  He  dragged  the  little  Irishman  forward 
to  drop  the  ties — then  strode  back  ahead  of  him.  Neale 
was  obsessed  by  a  profound  emotion.  This  was  a  new 
beginning  for  him.  For  him  the  world  and  life  had  seemed 
to  cease  when  yesternight  the  sun  sank  and  Allie  Lee 
passed  out  of  sight.  His  motive  in  working  there,  he 
imagined,  was  to  lay  a  few  rails,  drive  a  few  spikes  along 
the  last  miles  of  the  road  that  he  had  surveyed.  He  meant 
to  work  this  way  only  a  little  while,  till  the  rails  from  east 
met  those  from  west. 

This  profound  emotion  seemed  accompanied  by  a  pro 
cession  of  thoughts,  each  thought  in  turn,  like  a  sun  with 
satellites,  reflecting  its  radiance  upon  them  and  rousing 
strange,  dreamy,  full-hearted  fancies.  .  .  .  Allie  lived — as 
good,  as  innocent  as  ever,  incomparably  beautiful — sad- 
eyed,  eloquent,  haunting.  From  that  mighty  thought 
sprang  both  Neale's  exaltation  and  his  activity.  He  had 
loved  her  so  well  that  conviction  of  her  death  had  broken 
his  heart,  deadened  his  ambition,  ruined  his  life.  But 
since,  by  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  innocence  that  had 
made  men  heroic,  she  had  survived  all  peril,  all  evil,  then 
had  begun  a  colossal  overthrow  in  Neale's  soul  of  the 

382 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

darkness,  the  despair,  the  hate,  the  indifference.  He  had 
been  flung  aloft,  into  the  heights,  and  he  had  seen  into 
heaven.  He  asked  for  nothing  in  the  world.  All-satisfied, 
eternally  humble,  grateful  with  every  passionate  drop  of 
blood  throbbing  through  his  heart,  he  dedicated  all  his 
spiritual  life  to  memory.  And  likewise  there  seemed  a 
tremendous  need  in  him  of  sustained  physical  action,  even 
violence.  He  turned  to  the  last  stages  of  the  construction 
of  the  great  railroad. 

What  fine  comrades  these  hairy-breasted  toilers  made! 
Neale  had  admired  them  once;  now  he  loved  them.  Every 
group  seemed  to  contain  a  trio  like  that  one  he  had  known 
so  well — Casey,  Shane,  and  McDermott.  Then  he  divined 
that  these  men  were  all  alike.  They  all  toiled,  swore, 
fought,  drank,  gambled.  Hundreds  of  them  went  to 
nameless  graves.  But  the  work  went  on — the  great,  driv 
ing,  united  heart  beat  on. 

Neale  was  under  its  impulse,  in  another  sense. 

When  he  lifted  a  tie  and  felt  the  hard,  splintering  wood, 
he  wondered  where  it  had  come  from,  what  kind  of  a  tree 
it  was,  who  had  played  in  its  shade,  how  surely  birds  had 
nested  in  it  and  animals  had  grazed  beneath  it.  Between 
him  and  that  square  log  of  wood  there  was  an  affinity. 
Somehow  his  hold  upon  it  linked  him  strangely  to  a  long-past, 
intangible  spirit  of  himself.  He  must  cling  to  it,  lest  he 
might  lose  that  illusive  feeling.  Then  when  he  laid  it 
down  he  felt  regret  fade  into  a  realization  that  the  yellow- 
gravel  road-bed  also  inspirited  him.  He  wanted  to  feel 
it,  work  in  it,  level  it,  make  it  somehow  his  own. 

When  he  strode  back  for  another  load  his  magnifying 
eyes  gloated  over  the  toilers  in  action — the  rows  of  men 
carrying  and  laying  rails,  and  the  splendid  brawny  figures 
of  the  spikers,  naked  to  the  waist,  swinging  the  heavy 
sledges.  The  blows  rang  out  spang  —  spang  —  spang! 
Strong  music,  full  of  meaning !  When  his  turn  came  to  be 
a  spiker,  he  would  love  that  hardest  work  of  all. 

383 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

The  engine  puffed  smoke  and  bumped  the  cars  ahead, 
little  by  little  as  the  track  advanced;  men  on  the  train 
carried  ties  and  rails  forward,  filling  the  front  cars  as  fast 
as  they  were  emptied;  long  lines  of  laborers  on  the  ground 
passed  to  and  fro,  burdened  going  forward,  returning  empty- 
handed;  the  rails  and  the  shovels  and  the  hammers  and 
the  picks  all  caught  the  hot  gleam  from  the  sun;  the  dust 
swept  up  in  sheets;  the  ring,  the  crash,  the  thump,  the 
scrape  of  iron  and  wood  and  earth  in  collision  filled  the 
air  with  a  sound  rising  harshly  above  the  song  and  laugh 
and  curse  of  men. 

A  shifting,  colorful,  strenuous  scene  of  toil! 

Gradually  Neale  felt  that  he  was  fitting  into  this  scene, 
becoming  a  part  of  it,  an  atom  once  more  in  the  great 
whole.  He  doubted  while  he  thrilled.  Clearly  as  he  saw, 
keenly  as  he  felt,  he  yet  seemed  bewildered.  Was  he  not 
gazing  out  at  this  construction  work  through  windows  of 
his  soul,  once  more  painted,  colored,  beautiful,  because 
the  most  precious  gift  he  might  have  prayed  for  had  been 
given  him — life  and  hope  for  Allie  Lee? 

He  did  not  know.     He  could  not  think. 

His  comrade,  Pat,  wiped  floods  of  sweat  from  his  scarlet 
face.  "I'll  be  domned  if  ye  ain't  a  son-of-a-gun  fer 
worrk!"  he  complained. 

"Pat,  we've  been  given  the  honor  of  pace-makers. 
They've  got  to  keep  up  with  us.  Come  on,"  replied  Neale. 

"Be  gad!  there  ain't  a  mon  in  the  gang  phwat  '11  trade 
fer  me  honor,  thin,"  declared  Pat.  "Fri'nd,  I'd  loike  to 
live  till  next  pay-day." 

"Come  on,  then,  work  up  an  appetite,"  rejoined  Neale. 

"Shure  I'll  die.  .  .  .  An'  I'd  loike  to  ask,  beggin'  ye're 
pardon,  hevn't  ye  got  some  Irish  in  ye?" 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"I  knowed  thot.  ...  All  roight,  I'll  die  with  ye,  thin." 

In  half  an  hour  Pat  was  in  despair  again.  He  had  to 
rest. 

" Phwat 's — ye're — name?"  he  queried. 

384 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

"Neale." 

"It  ought  to  be  Casey.  Per  there  was  niver  but  wan 
loike  ye — an*  he  was  Casey.  .  .  .  Mon,  ye're  sweatin'  blood 
roight  now!" 

Pat  pointed  at  Neale's  red,  wet  shirt.  Neale  slapped 
his  breast,  and  droos  of  blood  and  sweat  spattered  from 
under  his  hand. 

"An'  shure  ye're  hands  are  bladin',  too!"  ejaculated  Pat. 

They  were,  indeed,  but  Neale  had  not  noted  that. 

The  boss,  Reilly,  passing  by,  paused  to  look  and  grin. 

"Pat,  yez  got  some  one  to  kape  up  with  to-day.  We're 
half  a  mile  ahead  of  yestidy  this  time." 

Then  he  turned  to  Neale. 

"I've  seen  one  in  yer  class — Casey  by  name.  An* 
thot's  talkin'." 

He  went  his  way.  And  Neale,  plodding  on,  saw  the  red 
face  of  the  great  Casey,  with  its  set  grin  and  the  blacKJ 
pipe.  Swiftly  then  he  saw  it  as  he  had  heard  of  it  last, 
and  a  shadow  glanced  fleetingly  across  the  singular  radiance 
of  his  mind. 

The  shrill  whistle  of  the  locomotive  halted  the  work  and 
called  the  men  to  dinner  and  rest.  Instantly  the  scene 
changed.  The  slow,  steady,  rhythmic  motions  of  labor 
gave  place  to  a  scramble  back  to  the  long  line  of  cars. 
Then  the  horde  of  sweaty  toilers  sought  places  in  the  shade, 
and  ate  and  drank  and  smoked  and  rested.  As  the  spirit 
of  work  had  been  merry,  so  was  that  of  rest,  with  always 
a  dry,  grim  earnestness  in  the  background. 

Neale  slowed  down  during  the  afternoon,  to  the  uncon 
cealed  thankfulness  of  his  partner.  The  burn  of  the  sun, 
the  slippery  sweat,  the  growing  ache  of  muscles,  the  never- 
ending  thirst,  the  lessening  of  strength — these  sensations 
impinged  upon  Neale's  emotion  and  gradually  wore  to  the 
front  of  his  consciousness.  His  hands  grew  raw,  his  back 
stiff  and  sore,  his  feet  crippled.  The  wound  in  his  breast 
burned  and  bled  and  throbbed.  At  the  end  of  the  day 
he  could  scarcely  walk. 

385 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

He  rode  in  with  the  laborers,  slept  twelve  hours,  and 
awoke  heavy-limbed,  slow,  and  aching.  But  he  rode  out 
to  work,  and  his  second  day  was  one  of  agony. 

The  third  was  a  continual  fight  between  will  and  body, 
between  spirit  and  pain.  But  so  long  as  he  could  step  and 
lift  he  would  work  on.  From  that  time  he  slowly  began 
to  mend. 

Then  came  his  siege  with  the  rails.  That  was  labor 
which  made  carrying  ties  seem  light.  He  toiled  on,  sweat* 
ing  thin,  wearing  hard,  growing  clearer  of  mind.  As  pain 
subsided,  and  weariness  of  body  no  longer  dominated  him, 
slowly  thought  and  feeling  returned  until  that  morning 
dawned  when,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  illuminating  his  soul, 
the  profound  and  exalted  emotion  again  possessed  him. 
Soon  he  came  to  divine  that  the  agony  of  toil  and  his  vic 
tory  over  weak  flesh  had  added  to  his  strange  happiness 
Hour  after  hour  he  bent  his  back  and  plodded  beside  his 
jcomrades,  doing  his  share,  burdened  as  they  were,  silent, 
watchful,  listening,  dreaming,  keen  to  note  the  progress  of 
'the  road,  yet  deep  in  his  own  intense  abstraction.  He 
seemed  to  have  two  minds.  He  saw  every  rod  of  the  ten 
miles  of  track  laid  every  day,  knew,  as  only  an  engineer 
could  know,  the  wonder  of  such  progress;  and,  likewise,  al 
ways  in  his  sight,  in  his  mind,  shone  a  face,  red-lipped, 
soulful,  lovely  like  a  saint's,  with  mournful  violet  eyes, 
star-sweet  in  innocence.  Life  had  given  Allie  Lee  back  to 
him — to  his  love  and  his  memory;  and  all  that  could  hap 
pen  to  him  now  must  be  good.  At  first  he  had  asked  for 
nothing,  so  grateful  was  he  to  fate,  but  now  he  prayed  for 
hours  and  days  and  nights  to  remember. 

The  day  came  when  Neale  graduated  into  the  class  of 
spikers.  This  division  of  labor  to  him  had  always  repre 
sented  the  finest  spirit  of  the  building.  The  drivers — the 
spikers — the  men  who  nailed  the  rails — who  riveted  the 
last  links — these  brawny,  half-naked  wielders  of  the  sledges, 
bronzed  as  Indians,  seemed  to  embody  both  the  romance 

386 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

and  the  achievement.  Neale  experienced  a  subtle  percep 
tion  with  the  first  touch  and  lift  and  swing  of  the  great 
hammer.  And  there  seemed  born  in  him  a  genius  for  the 
stroke.  He  had  a  free,  easy  swing,  with  tremendous  power. 
He  could  drive  so  fast  that  his  comrade  on  the  opposite 
rail,  and  the  carriers  and  layers,  could  not  keep  up  with 
him.  Moments  of  rest  seemed  earned.  During  these  he 
would  gaze  with  glinting  eyes  back  at  the  gangs  and  the 
trains,  at  the  smoke,  dust,  and  movement;  and  beyond 
toward  the  east. 

One  day  he  drove  spikes  for  hours,  with  the  gangs  in 
uninterrupted  labor  around  him,  while  back  a  mile  along 
the  road  the  troopers  fought  the  Sioux;  and  all  this  time, 
when  any  moment  he  might  be  ordered  to  drop  his  sledge 
for  a  rifle,  he  listened  to  the  voice  in  his  memory  and  saw 
the  face. 

Another  day  dawned  in  which  he  saw  the  grading  gangs 
return  from  work  ahead.  They  were  done.  Streams  of 
horses,  wagons,  and  men  on  the  return!  They  had  met 
the  graders  from  the  west,  and  the  two  lines  of  road 
bed  had  been  connected.  As  these  gangs  passed,  cheer  on 
cheer  greeted  them  from  the  rail-layers.  It  was  a  splendid 
moment. 

From  lip  to  lip  then  went  the  word  that  the  grading- 
gangs  from  east  and  west  had  passed  each  other  in  plain 
sight,  working  on,  grading  on  for  a  hundred  miles  farther 
than  necessary.  They  had  met  and  had  passed  on,  side  by 
side,  doubling  the  expense  of  construction. 

This  knowledge  gave  Neale  a  melancholy  reminder  of 
the  dishonest  aspect  of  the  road-building.  And  he  thought 
of  many  things.  The  spirit  of  the  work  was  grand,  the 
labor  heroic,  but,  alas!  side  by  side  with  these  splendid 
and  noble  attributes  stalked  the  specters  of  greed  and  gold 
and  lust  of  blood  and  of  death. 

But  neither  knowledge  such  as  this,  nor  peril  from  In 
dians,  nor  the  toil-pangs  of  a  galley  slave  had  power  to 
change  Neale's  supreme  state  of  joy. 

387 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

He  gazed  back  toward  the  east,  and  then  with  mighty 
swing  he  drove  a  spike.  He  loved  Allie  Lee  beyond  all 
conception,  and  next  he  loved  the  building  of  the  railroad. 

When  such  thoughts  came  he  went  back  to  pure  sensa 
tions,  the  great,  bold  peaks  looming  dark,  the  winding,  level 
road-bed,  the  smoky  desert-land,  reflecting  heat,  the  com 
pleted  track  and  gangs  of  moving  men  like  bright  ants  in 
the  sunlight,  and  the  exhaust  of  the  engines,  the  old  song, 
" Drill,  ye  terriers,  drill!"  the  ring  and  crash  and  thud  and 
scrape  of  labor,  the  whistle  of  the  seeping  sand  on  the 
wind,  the  feel  of  the  heavy  sledge  that  he  could  wield  as  a 
toy,  the  throb  of  pulse,  the  smell  of  dust  and  sweat,  the 
sense  of  his  being  there,  his  action,  his  solidarity,  hi& 
physical  brawn — once  more  manhood. 

But  at  last  human  instincts  encroached  upon  Neale's 
superlative  detachment  from  self.  It  seemed  all  of  a  sud 
den  that  he  stepped  toward  an  east-bound  train.  When 
he  reached  the  coach  something  halted  him — a  thought — 
where  was  he  going?  The  west-bound  work-train  was  the 
one  he  wanted.  He  laughed,  a  little  grimly.  Certainly 
he  had  grown  absent-minded.  And  straightway  he  became 
thoughtful,  in  a  different  way.  Not  many  moments  of  re 
flection  were  needed  to  assure  him  that  he  had  moved  toward 
the  east-bound  train  with  the  instinctive  idea  of  going  to 
Allie  Lee.  The  thing  amazed  him. 

"But  she — she's  gone  out  of  my  life,"  he  soliloquized. 
"And  I  am—  I  was  glad!" 

The  lightning-swift  shift  to  past  tense  enlightened  Neale. 

He  went  out  to  work.  That  work  still  loomed  splendid 
to  him,  but  it  seemed  not  the  same.  He  saw  and  felt  the 
majesty  of  common  free  men,  sweating  and  bleeding  and 
groaning  over  toil  comparable  to  the  building  of  the 
Pyramids;  he  felt  the  best  that  had  ever  been  in  him 
quicken  and  broaden  as  he  rubbed  elbows  with  these  simple,- 
elemental  toilers;  with  them  he  had  gotten  down  to  the 
level  of  truth.  His  old  genius  for  achievement,  the  prac 
tical  and  scientific  side  of  him,  still  thrilled  with  the  battle 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

of  strong  hands  against  the  natural  barriers  of  the  desert. 
He  saw  the  thousands  of  plodding,  swearing,  fighting, 
blaspheming,  joking  laborers  on  the  field  of  action — saw 
the  picture  they  made,  red  and  bronzed  and  black,  dust- 
begrimed;  and  how  here  with  the  ties  and  the  rails  and  the 
road-bed  was  the  heart  of  that  epical  turmoil.  What  ap 
proach  could  great  and  rich  engineers  and  directors  have 
made  to  that  vast  enterprise  without  these  sons  of  brawn? 
Neale  now  saw  what  he  had  once  dreamed,  and  that  was 
the  secret  of  his  longing  to  get  down  to  the  earth  with 
these  men. 

He  loved  to  swing  that  sledge,  to  hear  the  spang  of  the 
steel  ring  out.  He  had  a  sheer  physical  delight  in  the  power 
of  his  body,  long  since  thinned-out,  hardened,  tough  as  the 
wood  into  which  he  drove  the  spikes.  He  loved  his  new 
comrade,  Pat,  the  gnarled  and  knotted  little  Irishman  who1 
cursed  and  complained  of  his  job  and  fought  his  fellow- 
workei'S,  yet  who  never  lagged,  never  shirked,  and  never 
failed,  though  his  days  of  usefulness  must  soon  be  over. 
Soon  Pat  would  drop  by  the  roadside,  a  victim  to  toil( 
and  whisky  and  sun.  And  he  was  great  in  his  obscurity. 
He  wore  a  brass  tag  with  a  number;  he  signed  his  wag** 
receipt  with  a  cross;  he  cared  only  for  drink  and  a  painted 
hag  in  a  squalid  tent;  yet  in  all  the  essentials  that  Neale 
now  called  great  his  friend  Pat  reached  up  to  them — the 
spirit  to  work,  to  stand  his  share,  to  go  on,  to  endure,  to 
fulfil  his  task. 

Neale  might  have  found  salvation  in  this  late-developed 
and  splendid  relation  to  labor  and  to  men.  But  there  was 
a  hitch  in  his  brain.  He  would  see  all  that  was  beautiful 
and  strenuous  and  progressive  around  him;  and  then,  in 
a  flash,  that  hiatus  in  his  mind  would  operate  to  make 
him  hopeless. 

Then  he  would  stand  as  in  a  trance,  with  far-away  gaze 
in  his  eyes,  until  his  fellow-spiker  would  recall  him  to  his 
neglected  work.  These  intervals  of  abstraction  grew  upon 
him  until  he  would  leave  off  in  the  act  of  driving  a  spike. 

389 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

And  sometimes  in  these  strange  intervals  he  longed  for 
ftis  old  friend,  brother,  shadow — Larry  Red  King.  He  held 
to  Larry's  memory,  though  with  it  always  would  return 
that  low,  strange  roar  of  Benton's  gold  and  lust  and  blood 
and  death.  Neale  did  not  understand  the  mystery  of 
what  he  had  been  through.  It  had  been  a  phase  of  wild- 
ness  never  to  be  seen  again  by  his  race.  His  ambition  and 
effort,  his  fall,  his  dark  siege  with  hell,  his  friendship  and 
loss,  his  agony  and  toil,  his  victory,  were  all  symbolical  of 
the  progress  of  a  great  movement.  In  his  experience  lay  hid 
all  that  development. 

The  coming  of  night  was  always  a  relief  now,  for  with 
the  end  of  the  day's  work  he  need  no  longer  fight  his  battle. 
It  was  a  losing  battle — that  he  knew.  Shunning  everybody, 
he  paced  to  and  fro  out  on  the  dark,  windy  desert,  under 
the  lonely,  pitiless  stars. 

His  longing  to  see  Allie  Lee  grew  upon  him.  While  he 
had  believed  her  dead  he  had  felt  her  spirit  hovering  near 
him,  in  every  shadow,  and  her  voice  whispered  on  the 
wind.  She  was  alive  now,  but  gone  away,  far  distant, 
over  mountains  and  plains,  out  of  his  sight  and  reach, 
somewhere  to  take  up  a  new  life  alien  to  his.  What 
would  she  do?  Could  she  bear  it?  Never  would  she  for 
get  him — be  faithless  to  his  memory!  Yet  she  was  young 
and  her  life  had  been  hard.  She  might  yield  to  that  cold 
^Allison  Lee's  dictation.  In  happy  surroundings  her  beauty 
and  sweetness  would  bring  a  crowd  of  lovers  to  her. 

"But  that's  all — only  natural,"  muttered  Neale,  in  per 
plexity.  "I  want  her  to  forget — to  be  happy — to  find  a 
home.  .  .  .  For  her  to  grow  old — alone!  No!  She  must 
love  some  man — marry — " 

And  with  the  spoken  words  Neale's  heart  contracted. 
He  knew  that  he  lied  to  himself.  If  she  ever  cared  for 
another  man,  that  would  be  the  end  of  Warren  Neale. 
But  then,  he  was  ended,  anyhow.  Jealousy,  strange,  new, 
horrible,  added  to  Neale's  other  burdens,  finished  him. 
He  had  the  manhood  to  try  to  fight  selfishness,  but  he 

390 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

had  failed  to  subdue  it;  and  he  had  nothing  left  to  fight 
his  consuming  love  and  hatred  of  life  and  terrible  loneliness 
and  that  fierce  thing — jealousy.  He  had  saved  Allie  Lee! 
Why  had  he  given  her  up?  He  had  stained  his  hands  with 
blood  for  her  sake.  And  that  awful  moment  came  back 
to  him  when,  maddened  by  the  sting  of  a  bullet,  he  had 
gloried  in  the  cracking  of  Durade's  bones,  in  the  ghastly 
terror  and  fear  of  death  upon  the  Spaniard's  face,  in  the 
feel  of  the  knife-blade  as  he  forced  Durade  to  stab  himself. 
Always  Neale  had  been  haunted  by  this  final  scene  of  his 
evil  life  in  the  construction  camps.  A  somber  and  spectral 
shape,  intangible,  gloomy-faced,  often  attended  him  in  the 
shadow.  He  justified  his  deed,  for  Durade  would  have 
killed  Allison  Lee.  But  that  fact  did  not  prevent  the 
haunting  shape,  the  stir  in  the  dark  air,  the  nameless 
step  upon  Neale's  trail. 

And  jealousy,  stronger  than  all  except  fear,  wore  Neale 
:nit  of  his  exaltation,  out  of  his  dream,  out  of  his  old  dis-1 
position  to  work.  He  could  persist  in  courage  if  not  in' 
joy.  But  jealous  longing  would  destroy  him — he  felt  that. 
It  was  so  powerful,  so  wonderful  that  it  brought  back  to 
him  words  and  movements  which  until  then  he  had  been 
unable  to  recall. 

And  he  lived  over  the  past.  Much  still  baffled  him,  yet 
gradually  more  and  more  of  what  had  happened  became 
clear  specifically  in  his  memory.  He  could  not  think  from 
the  present  back  over  the  past.  He  had  to  ponder  the 
other  way. 

One  day,  leaning  on  his  sledge,  Neale's  torturing  self, 
morbid,  inquisitive,  growing  by  what  it  fed  on,  whispered 
another  question  to  his  memory. 

"What  were  some  of  the  last  words  she  spoke  to  me?" 

And  there,  limned  white  on  the  dark  background  of  his 
mind,  the  answer  appeared,  "Neale,  I  forgive  you!" 

He  recalled  her  face,  the  tragic  eyes,  the  outstretched 
arms. 

" Forgive  me!    For  what?"  Neale  muttered,  dazed  and 

391 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

troubled.  He  dropped  his  sledge  and  remained  standing 
there,  though  the  noon  whistle  called  the  gang  to  dinner,. 
Looking  out  across  the  hot,  smoky,  arid  desert  he  saw 
again  that  scene  where  he  had  appealed  to  Allison  Lee. 

The  picture  was  etched  out  vividly,  and  again  he  lived 
through  those  big  moments  of  emotion. 

The  room  full  of  men — Lee's  cold  acceptance  of  fact— 
his  thanks,  his  offer,  his  questions,  his  refusal — General 
Lodge's  earnest  solicitation — the  r?oid  exchange  of  pas 
sionate  words  between  them — the  query  put  to  Neale  and 
his  answer — the  sudden  appearance  of  Allie,  shocking  his 
heart  with  rapture — her  sweet,  wild  words — and  so  the  end! 
How  vivid  now — how  like  flashes  of  lightning  in  his  mind ! 

"Lee  thought  I'd  killed  Stanton,"  muttered  Neale,  in  in 
tense  perplexity.  "But  she — she  told  them  Larry  did 
it.  ...  What  a  strange  idea  Lee  had — and  General  Lodge, 
too.  He  defended  me.  ...  Ah!" 

Suddenly  Neale  drew  from  his  pocket  the  little  leather 
note-book  that  had  been  Stanton's,  and  which  contained 
her  letter  to  him.  With  trembling  hands  he  opened  it. 
Again  this  letter  was  to  mean  a  revelation. 

General  Lodge  had  said  his  engineer  had  read  aloud  only 
the  first  of  that  message  to  Neale;  and  from  this  Allison 
Lee  and  all  the  listeners  had  formed  their  impressions. 

Neale  read  these  first  lines. 

"No  wonder  they  imagined  I  killed  her!"  he  exclaimed. 
"She  accuses  me.  But  she  never  meant  what  they  im 
agined  she  meant.  Why,  that  evidence  could  hang  me! 
.  .  .  Allie  told  them  she  saw  Larry  do  it.  And  it's  common 
knowledge  now — I've  heard  it  here.  .  .  .  What,  then,  had 
Allie  to  forgive — to  forgive  with  eyes  that  will  haunt  me 
to  my  grave?" 

Then  the  tru.th  burst  upon  him  with  merciless  and 
stunning  force. 

"My  God!  Allie  believed  what  they  all  believed — what 
I  must  have  blindly  made  seem  true!  .  .  .  That  I  was  Beauty 
Stanton's  lover!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

home  to  which  Allie  Lee  was  brought  stood  in 
1  the  outskirts  of  Omaha  upon  a  wooded  bank  above 
the  river. 

Allie  watched  the  broad,  yellow  Missouri  swirling  by. 
She  liked  best  to  be  alone  outdoors  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees.  In  the  weeks  since  her  arrival  there  she  had  not 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  meeting  Neale  only  to  be 
parted  from  him. 

But  the  comfort,  the  luxury  of  her  home,  the  relief  from 
constant  dread,  such  as  she  had  known  for  years,  the 
quiet  at  night — these  had  been  so  welcome,  so  saving,  that 
her  burden  of  sorrow  seemed  endurable.  Yet  in  time  she 
came  to  see  that  the  finding  of  a  father  and  a  home  had 
only  added  to  her  bitterness. 

Allison  Lee's  sister,  an  elderly  woman  of  strong  char 
acter,  resented  the  home-bringing  of  this  strange,  lost 
daughter.  Allie  had  found  no  sympathy  in  her.  For  a 
while  neighbors  and  friends  of  the  Lees'  flocked  to  the 
house  and  were  kind,  gracious,  attentive  to  Allie.  Then 
somehow  her  story,  or  part  of  it,  became  gossip.  Her 
father,  sensitive,  cold,  embittered  by  the  past,  suffered  in 
tolerable  shame  at  the  disgrace  of  a  wife's  desertion  and 
$  daughter's  notoriety.  Allie's  presence  hurt  him;  he 
avoided  her  as  much  as  possible ;  the  little  kindnesses  that 
he  had  shown,  and  his  feelings  of  pride  in  her  beauty  and 
charm,  soon  vanished.  There  was  no  love  between  them. 
Allie  had  tried  hard  to  care  for  him,  but  her  heart  seemed 
to  be  buried  in  that  vast  grave  of  the  West.  She  was 
obedient,  dutiful,  passive,  but  she  could  not  care  for  him. 
And  there  came  a  day  when  she  realized  that  he  did  not 

26  393 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

believe  she  had  come  unscathed  through  the  wilds  of  the 
gold-fields  and  the  vileness  of  the  construction  camps. 
She  bore  this  patiently,  though  it  stung  her.  But  the  loss 
of  respect  for  her  father  did  not  come  until  she  heard  men 
in  his  study,  loud-voiced  and  furious,  wrangle  over  contracts 
and  accuse  him  of  double-dealing. 

Later  he  told  her  that  he  had  become  involved  in  finan 
cial  straits,  and  that  unless  he  could  raise  a  large  sum 
by  a  certain  date  he  would  be  ruined 

And  it  was  this  day  that  Allie  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  little 
arbor  and  watched  the  turbulent  river.  She  was  sorry  for 
her  father,  but  she  could  not  help  him.  Moreover,  alien 
griefs  did  not  greatly  touch  her.  Her  own  grief  was  deep 
and  all-enfolding.  She  was  heart-sick,  and  always  yearn 
ing — yearning  for  that  she  dared  not  name. 

The  day  was  hot,  sultry;  no  birds  sang,  but  the  locusts 
were  noisy;  the  air  was  full  of  humming  bees. 

Allie  watched  the  river.  She  was  idle  because  her  aunt 
would  not  let  her  work.  She  could  only  remember  and 
suffer.  The  great  river  soothed  her.  Where  did  it  come 
from  and  where  did  it  go?  And  what  was  to  become  of 
her?  Almost  it  would  have  been  better — 
•  A  servant  interrupted  her.  "  Missy,  heah's  a  gen^el- 
man  to  see  yo',"  announced  the  negro  girl. 

Allie  looked.  She  thought  she  saw  a  tall,  buckskin-clad 
man  carrying  a  heavy  pack.  Was  she  dreaming  or  had  she 
lost  her  mind?  She  got  up,  shaking  in  every  limb.  This 
tall  man  moved;  he  seemed  real;  his  bronzed  face  beamed. 
He  approached;  he  set  the  pack  down  on  the  bench. 
Then  his  keen,  clear  eyes  pierced  Allie. 

"Wai,  lass,"  he  said,  gently. 

The  familiar  voice  was  no  dream,  no  treachery  of  her 
mind.  Slingerland!  She  could  not  speak.  She  could 
hardly  see.  She  swayed  into  his  arms.  Then  when  she 
felt  the  great,  strong  clasp  and  the  softness  of  buckskin 
on  her  face  and  the  odor  of  pine  and  sage  and  desert 
she  believed  in  his  reality. 

394 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

Her  heart  seemed  to  collapse.    All  within  her  was  riot. 

"Neale!"  she  whispered,  in  anguish. 

"All  right  an'  workin'  hard.  He  sent  me,"  replied 
Slingerland,  swift  to  get  his  message  out. 

Allie  quivered  and  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  against 
him.  A  beautiful  something  pervaded  her  soul.  Slowly 
the  tumult  within  her  breast  subsided.  She  recovered. 

"Uncle  Al !"  she  called  him,  tenderly. 

"Wai,  I  should  smile!  An'  glad  to  see  you — why 
Lord !  I'd  never  tell  you !  .  .  .  You're  white  an'  shaky, 
lass.  .  .  .  Set  down  hyar — on  the  bench — beside  me. 
Thar!  .  .  .  Allie,  I've  a  powerful  lot  to  tell  you." 

"Wait!  To  see  you — and  to  hear — of  him — almost 
killed  me  with  joy,"  she  panted.  Her  little  hands,  once 
so  strong  and  brown,  but  now  thin  and  white,  fastened 
tight  in  the  fringe  of  his  buckskin  hunting-coat. 

"Lass,  sight  of  you  sort  of  makes  me  young  agin — but 
— Allie,  those  are  not  the  happy  eyes  I  remember." 

"I — am  very  unhappy,"  she  whispered. 

"Wai,  if  thet  ain't  too  bad!  Shore  it's  natural  you'd 
be  downhearted,  losin'  Neale  thet  way." 

"It's  not  all — that,"  she  murmured,  and  then  she  told 
him. 

"Wai,  wal!"  ejaculated  the  trapper,  stroking  his 
beard  in  thoughtful  sorrow.  "But  I  reckon  thet's  nat 
ural,  too.  You're  strange  hyar,  an'  thet  story  will  hang 
over.  .  .  .  Lass,  with  all  due  respect  to  your  father,  I 
reckon  you'd  better  come  back  to  me  an'  Neale." 

"Did  he  tell  you — to  say  that  ?"  she  whispered,  tremu 
lously. 

"Lord,  no!"  ejaculated  Slingerland. 

"Does  he — care — for  me  still  ?" 

"Lass,  he's  dyin'  fer  you — an'  I  never  spoke  a  truer 
word." 

Allie  shuddered  close  to  him,  blinded,  stormed  by  an 
exquisite  bitter-sweet  fury  of  love.  She  seemed  rising, 
uplifted,  filled  with  rich,  strong  joy. 

395 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

;  ii  forgave  him,"  she  murmured,  dreamily  low  to  herseE 

"Wai,  mebbe  you'll  be  right  glad  you  did — presently, " 
said  Slingerland,  with  animation.  '"Specially  when  thar 
wasn't  nothin'  much  to  forgive." 

Allie  became  mute.     She  could  not  lift  her  eyes. 

"Lass,  listen!"  began  Slingerland.  " After  you  left 
Roarin'  City  Neale  went  at  hard  work.  Began  by  heavin' 
ties  an'  rails,  an*  now  he's  slingin'  a  sledge.  .  .  .  This  was 
amazin'  to  me.  I  seen  him  only  onct  since,  an'  thet  was 
the  other  day.  But  I  heerd  about  him.  I  rode  over  to 
Roarin'  City  several  times.  An'  I  made  it  my  bizness  to 
find  out  about  Neale.  ...  He  never  came  into  the  town 
at  all.  They  said  he  worked  like  a  slave  thet  first  day, 
bleedin'  hard.  But  he  couldn't  be  stopped.  An'  the  work 
didn't  kill  him,  though  thar  was  some  as  swore  it  would. 
They  said  he  changed,  an'  when  he  toughened  up  thar  was 
never  but  one  man  as  could  equal  him,  an'  thet  was  an  Irish 
feller  named  Casey.  I  heerd  it  was  somethin'  worth  while 
to  see  him  sling  a  sledge.  .  .  .  Wai,  I  never  seen  him  do  it, 
but  mebbe  I  will  yet. 

"A  few  days  back  I  met  him  gettin'  off  a  train  at  Roarin' 
City.  Lord!  I  hardly  knowed  him!  He  stood  like  an 
Injun,  with  the  big  muscles  bulgin',  an'  his  face  was  clean 
an'  dark,  his  eye  like  fire.  .  .  .  He  nearly  shook  the  day 
lights  out  of  me.  'Slingerland,  I  want  you!'  he  kept  yellin* 
at  me.  An'  I  said,  'So  it  'pears,  but  what  fer?'  Then  he 
told  me  he  was  goin'  after  the  gold  thet  Horn  had  buried 
along  the  old  Laramie  Trail.  Wai,  I  took  my  outfit,  an* 
we  rode  back  into  the  hills.  You  remember  them.  Wai, 
we  found  the  gold,  easy  enough,  an'  we  packed  it  back 
to  Roarin'  City.  Thar  Neale  sent  me  off  on  a  train  to 
fetch  the  gold  to  you.  An'  hyar  I  am  an'  thar's  the  gold." 

Allie  stared  at  the  pack,  bewildered  by  Slingerland's 
story.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  and  she  felt  the  blood  rush 
to  her  cheeks. 

"Gold!  Horn's  gold!  But  it's  not  mine!  Did  Neale 
send  it  tome?" 

396 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

"Every  ounce,"  replied  the  trapper,  soberly.  "I  reckon 
it's  yours.  Thar  was  no  one  else  left — an'  you  recollect 
what  Horn  said.  Lass,  it's  yours — an'  I'm  goin'  to  make 
you  keep  it." 

"How  much  is  there?"  queried  Allie,  with  thrills  of 
curiosity.  How  well  she  remembered  Horn!  He  had 
told  her  he  had  no  relatives.  Indeed,  the  gold  was  hers. 

"Wai,  Neale  an'  me  couldn't  calkilate  how  much, 
hevin'  nothin'  to  weigh  the  gold.  But  it's  a  fortune." 

Allie  turned  from  the  pack  to  the  earnest  face  of  the 
trapper.  There  had  been  many  critical  moments  in  her 
life,  but  never  one  with  the  suspense,  the  fullness,  the  in- 
evitableness  of  this. 

"Did  Neale  send  anything  else?"  she  flashed. 

"Wai,  yes,  an'  I  was  comin'  to  thet,"  replied  Slinger- 
land,  as  he  unlaced  the  front  of  his  hunting-frock.  Pres 
ently  he  drew  forth  a  little  leather  note-book,  which  he 
handed  to  Allie.  She  took  it  while  looking  up  at  him. 
Never  had  she  seen  his  face  radiate  such  strange  emo 
tion.  She  divined  it  to  be  the  supreme  happiness  inher-i 
ent  in  the  power  to  give  happiness. 

Allie  trembled.  She  opened  the  little  book.  Surely  it 
would  contain  a  message  that  would  be  as  sweet  as  life 
to  dying  eyes.  She  read  a  name,  written  in  ink,  in  a 
clear  script :  "Beauty  Stanton." 

Her  pulses  ceased  to  beat,  her  blood  to  flow,  her  heart 
to  throb.  All  seemed  to  freeze  within  her  except  her 
mind.  And  that  leaped  fearfully  over  the  first  lines  of  a 
letter — then  feverishly  on  to  the  close — only  to  fly  back 
and  read  again. 

Then  she  dropped  the  book.  She  hid  her  face  on 
Slingerland's  breast.  She  clutched  him  with  frantic 
hands.  She  clung  there,  her  body  all  held  rigid,  as  if 
some  extraordinary  strength  or  inspiration  or  joy  had 
suddenly  inhibited  weakness. 

"Wai,  lass,  hyar  you're  takin'  it  powerful  hard — an'  I 
made  sure — " 

397 


THE    U.    P.    TRAIL 

6 'Hush!"  whispered  Allie,  raising  her  face.  She  kissed 
him.  Then  she  sprang  up  like  a  bent  sapling  released. 
She  met  Slingerland's  keen  gaze — saw  him  start — then 
rise  as  if  the  better  to  meet  a  shock. 

"I  am  going  back  West  with  you,"  she  said,  coolly. 

"Wai,  I  knowed  you'd  go." 

"  Divide  that  gold.     I'll  leave  half  for  my  father." 

Slingerland's  great  hands  began  to  pull  at  the  pack, 

"Thar's  a  train  soon.  I  calkilated  to  stay  over  a  day. 
But  the  sooner  the  better.  .  .  .  Lass,  will  you  run  off  or 
tell  him?" 

"I'll  tell  him.  He  can't  stop  me,  even  if  he  would.  .  .  . 
The  gold  will  save  him  from  ruin.  .  .  .  He  will  let  me  go." 

She  stooped  to  pick  up  the  little  leather  note-book  and 
placed  it  in  her  bosom.  Her  heart  seemed  to  surge  against 
it.  The  great  river  rolled  on — rolled  on — magnified  in  her 
sight.  A  thick,  rich,  beautiful  light  shone  under  the  trees. 
What  was  this  dance  of  her  blood  while  she  seemed  so 
calm,  so  cool,  so  sure? 

"Does  he  have  any  idea — that  I  might  return  to  him?" 
she  asked. 

"None,  lass,  none!  Thet  I'll  swear,"  declared  Slinger- 
land.  "When  I  left  him  at  Roarin'  City  the  other  day  he 
was — wal,  like  he  used  to  be.  The  boy  come  out  in  him 
again,  not  jest  the  same,  but  brave.  Sendin'  thet  gold  an* 
thet  little  book  made  him  happy.  ...  I  reckon  Neale  found 
his  soul  then.  An1  he  never  expects  to  see  you  again  in 
this  hyar  world." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

BUILDING  a  railroad  grew  to  be  an  exact  and  wonder 
ful  science  with  the  men  of  the  Union  Pacific,  from 
engineers  down  to  the  laborers  who  ballasted  and  smoothed 
the  road-bed. 

Wherever  the  work-trains  stopped  there  began  a  hum 
like  a  bee-hive.  Gangs  loaded  rails  on  a  flat-car,  and  the 
horses  or  mules  were  driven  at  a  gallop  to  the  front.  There 
two  men  grasped  the  end  of  a  rail  and  began  to  slide  it  off. 
In  couples,  other  laborers  of  that  particular  gang  laid  hold, 
and  when  they  had  it  off  the  car  they  ran  away  with  it 
to  drop  it  in  place.  While  they  were  doing  this  other  gangs 
followed  with  more  rails.  Four  rails  laid  to  the  minute! 
When  one  of  the  cars  was  empty  it  was  tipped  off  the  track 
to  make  room  for  the  next  one.  And  as  that  next  one 
passed  the  first  was  levered  back  again  on  the  rails  to 
return  for  another  load. 

Four  rails  down  to  the  minute!  It  was  Herculean  toil. 
The  men  who  fitted  the  rails  were  cursed  the  most  fre 
quently,  because  they  took  time,  a  few  seconds,  when  there 
was  no  time. 

Then  the  spikers!  These  brawny,  half -naked,  sweaty 
'giants — what  a  grand  spanging  music  of  labor  rang  from 
under  their  hammers!  Three  strokes  to  a  spike  for  most 
spikers!  Only  two  strokes  for  such  as  Casey  or  Neale! 
Ten  spikes  to  a  rail — four  hundred  rails  to  a  mile!  .  .  . 
How  many  million  times  had  brawny  arms  swung  and 
sledges  clanged! 

Forward  every  day  the  work-trains  crept  westward, 
closer  and  closer  to  that  great  hour  when  they  would  meet 
the  work-TT-zuns  coming  east. 

399 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

The  momentum  now  of  the  road-laying  was  tremendous. 
The  spirit  that  nothing  could  stop  had  become  embodied 
In  a  scientific  army  of  toilers,  a  mass,  a  machine,  ponderous, 
irresistible,  moving  on  to  the  meeting  of  the  rails. 

Every  day  the  criss-cross  of  ties  lengthened  out  along 
the  winding  road-bed,  and  the  lines  of  glistening  rails  kept 
pace  with  them.  The  sun  beat  down  hot — the  dust  flew 
in  sheets  and  puffs — the  smoky  veils  floated  up  from  the 
desert.  Red-shirted  toilers,  blue-shirted  toilers,  half- 
naked  toilers,  sweat  and  bled,  and  laughed  grimly,  and 
sucked  at  their  pipes,  and  bent  their  broad  backs.  The 
pace  had  quickened  to  the  limit  of  human  endurance. 
Fury  of  sound  filled  the  air.  Its  rhythmical  pace  was  the 
mighty  gathering  impetus  of  a  last  heave,  a  last  swing. 

Promontory  Point  was  the  place  destined  to  be  famous 
as  the  meeting  of  the  rails. 

On  that  summer  day  in  1869,  which  was  to  complete 
the  work,  special  trains  arrived  from  west  and  east.  The 
Governor  of  California,  who  was  also  president  of  the 
western  end  of  the  line,  met  the  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States  and  the  directors  of  the  Union  Pacific. 
Mormons  from  Utah  were  there  in  force.  The  Government 
was  represented  by  officers  and  soldiers  in  uniform;  and 
these,  with  their  military  band,  lent  the  familiar  martial 
air  to  the  last  scene  of  the  great  enterprise.  Here  mingled 
the  Irish  and  negro  laborers  from  the  east  with  the  Chinese 
and  Mexican  from  the  west.  Then  the  eastern  paddies 
laid  the  last  rails  on  one  end,  while  the  western  coolies  laid 
those  on  the  other.  The  rails  joined.  Spikes  were  driven, 
until  the  last  one  remained. 

The  Territory  of  Arizona  had  presented  a  spike  of  gold, 
silver,  and  iron;  Nevada  had  given  one  of  silver,  and  a  rail 
road  tie  of  laurel  wood;  and  the  last  spike  of  all — of  solid 
gold — was  presented  by  California. 

The  driving  of  the  last  spike  was  to  be  heard  all  over 
the  United  States.  Omaha  was  the  telegraphic  center. 
The  operator  here  had  informed  all  inquirers,  "When  tb* 

400 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

last  spike  is  driven  at  Promontory  Point  we  will  say0 
•Done!'" 

The  magic  of  the  wire  was  to  carry  that  single  message 
abroad  over  the  face  of  the  land. 

The  President  of  the  United  States  was  to  be  congratu 
lated,  as  were  the  officers  of  the  army,  and  the  engineers 
of  the  work.  San  Francisco  had  arranged  a  monster  cele 
bration  marked  by  the  booming  of  cannon  and  enthusiastic 
parades.  Free  railroad  tickets  into  Sacramento  were  to 
fill  that  city  with  jubilant  crowds.  At  Omaha  cannons 
were  to  be  fired,  business  abandoned,  and  the  whole  city 
given  over  to  festivity.  Chicago  was  to  see  a  great  parade 
and  decoration.  In  New  York  a  hundred  guns  were  to 
boom  out  the  tidings.  Trinity  Church  was  to  have  special 
services,  and  the  famous  chimes  were  to  play  "Old  Hun 
dred."  In  Philadelphia  a  ringing  of  the  Liberty  Bell  in 
Independence  Hall  would  initiate  a  celebration.  And  so', 
it  would  be  in  all  prominent  cities  of  the  Union. 

Neale  was  at  Promontory  Point  that  summer  day.  He 
stood  aloof  from  the  crowd,  on  a  little  bank,  watching  with 
shining  eyes. 

To  him  the  scene  was  great,  beautiful,  final. 

Only  a  few  hundreds  of  that  vast  army  of  laborers  were 
present  at  the  meeting  of  the  rails,  but  enough  were  there 
to  represent  the  whole.  Neale's  glances  were  swift  and 
gathering.  His  comrades,  Pat  and  McDermott,  sat  near, 
exchanging  lights  for  their  pipes.  They  seemed  reposeful, 
and  for  them  the  matter  was  ended.  Broken  hulks  of 
toilers  of  the  rails!  Neither  would  labor  any  more.  A 
burly  negro,  with  crinkly,  bullet-shaped  head,  leaned 
against  a  post;  a  brawny  spiker,  naked  to  the  waist,  his 
wonderful  shoulders  and  arms  brown,  shiny,  knotted, 
scarred,  stood  near,  sledge  in  hand;  a  group  of  Irishmen, 
red-  and  blue-shirted,  puffed  their  black  pipes  and  argued; 
swarthy,  sloe -eyed  Mexicans,  with  huge  sombreros  OE 
their  knees,  lolled  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  talking  low  iu 

401 


THE   U.    P.    TRAIL 

their  mellow  tones  and  fingering  cigarettes;  Chinamen, 
with  long  pig-tails  and  foreign  dress,  added  strangeness  and 
colorful  contrast. 

Neale  heard  the  low  murmur  of  voices  of  tne  crowd, 
and  the  slow  puffing  of  the  two  engines,  head  on,  only  a 
few  yards  apart,  so  strikingly  different  in  shape.  Then 
followed  the  pounding  of  hoofs  and  tread  of  many  feet, 
the  clang  of  iron  as  the  last  rail  went  down.  How  clear, 
sweet,  spanging  the  hammer  blows!  And  there  was  the 
old  sighing  sweep  of  the  wind.  Then  came  a  gun-shot, 
the  snort  of  a  horse,  a  loud  laugh. 

Neale  heard  all  with  sensitive,  recording  ears. 

"Mac,  yez  are  so  dom'  smart — now  tell  me  who  built 
the  U.  P.?"  demanded  Pat. 

"Thot's  asy.  Me  fri'nd  Casey  did,  b'gorra,"  retorted 
McDermott. 

"Loike  hell  he  did!    It  was  the  Irish." 

"Shure,  thot's  phwat  I  said,"  McDermott  replied 

"Wai,  thin,  phwat  built  the  U.  P.?  Tell  me  thot.  Yez 
knows  so  much." 

McDermott  scratched  his  sun-blistered,  stubble-field  of 
a  face,  and  grinned.  "Whisky  built  the  eastern  half,  an* 
cold  tay  built  the  western  half." 

Pat  regarded  his  comrade  with  considerable  respect. 
"Mac,  shure  yez  is  intilligint,"  he  granted.  "The  Irish 
lived  on  whisky  an'  the  Chinamons  on  tay.  .  .  .  Wai,  yez 
is  so  dom'  orful  smart,  mebbe  yez  can  tell  me  who  got  the 
money  for  thot  worrk." 

"B'gorra,  I  know  where  ivery  dollar  wint,"  replied, 
McDermott. 

And  so  they  argued  on,  oblivious  to  the  impressive  last 
stage. 

Neale  sensed  the  rest,  the  repose  in  the  attitude  of  all 
the  laborers  present.  Their  hour  was  done.  And  they 
accepted  that  with  the  equanimity  with  which  they  had 
met  the  toil,  the  heat  and  thirst,  the  Sioux.  A  splendid, 
rugged,  loquacious,  crude,  elemental  body  of  men,  uncon- 

402 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

scious  of  heroism.  Those  who  had  survived  the  five  long 
years  of  toil  and  snow  and  sun,  and  the  bloody  Sioux,  and 
the  roaring  camps,  bore  the  scars,  the  furrows,  the  gray 
hairs  of  great  and  wild  times. 

A  lane  opened  up  in  the  crowd  to  the  spot  where  the 
rails  had  met. 

Neale  got  a  glimpse  of  his  associates,  the  engineers,  as 
they  stood  near  the  frock-coated  group  of  dignitaries  and 
directors.  Then  Neale  felt  the  stir  and  lift  of  emotion, 
as  if  he  were  on  a  rising  wave.  His  blood  began  to  flow 
fast  and  happily.  He  was  to  share  their  triumph.  The 
moment  had  come.  Some  one  led  him  back  to  his  post 
of  honor  as  the  head  of  the  engineer  corps. 

A  silence  fell  then  over  that  larger,  denser  multitude.  It 
grew  impressive,  charged,  waiting. 

Then  a  man  of  God  offered  up  a  prayer.  His  voice^ 
floated  dreamily  to  Neale.  When  he  had  ceased  there  were 
slow,  dignified  movements  of  frock-coated  men  as  they 
placed  1:1  pcsltics  the  last  spike. 

The  silver  sledge  flashed  it?  the  sunlight  and  fell.  Tht 
sound  of  the  driving-stroke  did  not  come  to  Neale 
with  the  familiar  spang  of  iron;  it  was  soft,  mellowr 
golden. 

A  last  stroke!  The  silence  vibrated  to  a  deep,  hoarse 
acclaim  from  hundreds  of  men — a  triumphant,  united 
hurrah,  simultaneously  sent  out  with  that  final  message, 
'"Done!" 

A  great  flood  of  sound,  of  color  seemed  to  wave  over 
Neale.  His  eyes  dimmed  with  salt  tears,  blurring  the 
splendid  scene.  The  last  moment  had  passed — that  for 
which  he  had  stood  with  all  faith,  all  spirit — and  the  vic 
tory  was  his.  The  darkness  passed  out  of  his  soul. 

Then,  as  he  stood  there,  bareheaded,  at  the  height  of 
this  all-satisfying  moment,  when  the  last  echoing  melody 
of  the  sledge  had  blended  in  the  roar  of  the  crowd,  a  strange 
feeling  of  a  presence  struck  Neale.  Was  it  spiritual — was 
it  divine — was  it  God?  Or  was  it  only  baneful, 

403 


THE    U.    P.   TRAIL 

specter  of  his  accomplished  work — a  reminder  of  the 
long,  gray  future? 

A  hand  slipped  into  his — small,  soft,  trembling,  ex 
quisitely  thrilling.  Neale  became  still  as  a  stone — trans 
fixed.  He  knew  that  touch.  No  dream,  no  fancy,  no 
morbid  visitation!  He  felt  warm  flesh — tender,  clinging 
fingers;  and  then  the  pulse  of  blood  that  beat  of  hope*- 
love— life — Allie  Lee! 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

OLINGERLAND  saw  Allie  Lee  married  to  Neale  by 
O  that  minister  of  God  whose  prayer  had  followed  the 
joining  of  the  rails. 

And  to  the  old  trapper  had  fallen  the  joy  and  the  honor 
of  giving  the  bride  away  and  of  receiving  her  kiss,  as 
though  he  had  been  her  father.  Then  the  happy  congrat 
ulations  from  General  Lodge  and  his  staff;  the  merry 
dinner  given  the  couple,  and  its  toasts  warm  with  praise 
of  the  bride's  beauty  and  the  groom's  luck  and  success; 
Neale's  strange,  rapt  happiness  and  Allie's  soul  shining 
through  her  dark-blue  eyes — this  hour  was  to  become 
memorable  for  Slingerland's  future  dreams. 

Slingerland's  sight  was  not  clear  when,  as  the  train, 
pulled  away,  he  waved  a  last  good-by  to  his  young 
friends.  Now  he  had  no  hope,  no  prayer  left  un 
answered,  except  to  be  again  in  his  beloved  hills. 

Abruptly  he  hurried  away  to  the  corrals  where  his 
pack-train  was  all  in  readiness  to  start.  He  did  not  speak 
to  a  man. 

He  had  packed  a  dozen  burros — the  largest  and  com- 
pletest  pack-train  he  had  ever  driven.  The  abundance  of 
carefully  selected  supplies,  tools,  and  traps  should  last 
him  many  years — surely  all  the  years  that  he  would  live. 

Slingerland  did  not  intend  to  return  to  civilization, 
and  he  never  even  looked  back  at  that  blotch  on  the  face 
of  the  bluff — that  hideous  Roaring  City. 

He  drove  the  burros  at  a  good  trot,  his  mind  at  once 
busy  and  absent,  happy  with  the  pictures  of  that  last 
hour,  gloomy  with  the  undefined,  unsatisfied  cravings  of 

405 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

his  heart.  Friendship  with  Neale,  affection  for  Allie,  ac 
quainted  him  with  the  fact  that  he  had  missed  something 
in  life — not  friendship,  for  he  had  had  hunter  friends, 
but  love,  perhaps  of  a  sweetheart,  surely  love  of  a  daughter. 

For  the  rest  the  old  trapper  was  glad  to  see  the  last  of 
habitations,  and  of  men,  and  of  the  railroad.  Slinger- 
land  hated  that  great,  shining  steel  band  of  progress  con 
necting  East  and  West.  Every  ringing  sledge-hammer 
blow  had  sung  out  the  death-knell  of  the  trapper's  calling. 
This  railroad  spelled  the  end  of  the  wilderness.  What  one 
group  of  greedy  men  had  accomplished  others  would  imi 
tate;  and  the  grass  of  the  plains  would  be  burned,  the 
forests  blackened,  the  fountains  dried  up  in  the  valleys, 
and  the  wild  creatures  of  the  mountains  driven  and  hunted 
and  exterminated.  The  end  of  the  buffalo  had  come — 
the  end  of  the  Indian  was  in  sight — and  that  of  the  fur- 
bearing  animal  and  his  hunter  must  follow  soon  with  the 
hurrying  years. 

Slingerland  hated  the  railroad,  and  he  could  not  see  as 
Neale  did,  or  any  of  the  engineers  or  builders.  This  old 
trapper  had  the  vision  of  the  Indian — that  far-seeing  eye 
cleared  by  distance  and  silence,  and  the  force  of  the  great, 
lonely  hills.  Progress  was  great,  but  nature  undespoiled 
was  greater.  If  a  race  could  not  breed  all  stronger  men, 
through  its  great  movements,  it  might  better  not  breed  any, 
for  the  bad  over-multiplied  the  good,  and  so  their  needs 
magnified  into  greed.  Slingerland  saw  many  shining  bands 
of  steel  across  the  plains  and  mountains,  many  stations 
and  hamlets  and  cities,  a  growing  and  marvelous  prosperity 
from  timber,  mines,  farms,  and  in  the  distant  end — a 
gutted  West. 

He  made  his  first  camp  on  a  stream  watering  a  valley 
twenty  miles  from  the  railroad.  There  were  Indian  tracks 
on  the  trails.  But  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Indians. 
That  night,  though  all  was  starry  and  silent  around  him 
as  he  lay,  he  still  held  the  insupportable  feeling. 

Next  day  he  penetrated  deeper  into  the  foothills,  and 

A06 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

soon  he  had  gained  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  No 
longer  did  he  meet  trails  except  those  of  deer  and  lion 
and  bear.  And  so  day  after  day  he  drove  his  burros^ 
climbing  and  descending  the  rocky  ways,  until  he  had  pene< 
trated  to  the  very  heart  of  the  great  wild  range. 

In  all  his  roaming  over  untrodden  lands  he  had  never 
come  into  such  a  wild  place.  No  foot,  not  even  an  In 
dian's,  had  ever  desecrated  this  green  valley  with  its  clear, 
singing  stream,  its  herds  of  tame  deer,  its  curious  beaver, 
its  pine-covered  slopes,  its  looming,  gray,  protective  peaks. 
And  at  last  he  was  satisfied  to  halt  there — to  build  his 
cabin  and  his  corral. 

Discontent  and  longing,  and  then  hate,  passed  into 
oblivion.  These  useless  passions  could  not  long  survive 
in  such  an  environment.  By  and  by  the  old  trapper's 
only  link  with  the  past  was  memory  of  a  stalwart  youth, 
and  of  a  girl  with  violet  eyes,  and  of  their  sad  and  wonder 
ful  romance,  in  which  he  had  played  a  happy  part. 

The  rosy  dawn,  the  days  of  sun  and  cloud,  the  still, 
windy  nights,  the  solemn  stars,  the  moon-blanched  valley 
with  its  grazing  herds,  the  beautiful  wild  mourn  of  the 
hunting  wolf  and  the  whistle  of  the  stag,  and  always  and 
ever  the  murmur  of  the  stream — in  these,  and  in  the  soli 
tude  and  loneliness  of  their  haunts,  he  found  his  goal,  his 
serenity,  the  truth  and  best  of  remaining  life  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  BAND  of  Sioux  warriors  rode  out  upon  a  promontory 
of  the  hills,  high  above  the  great  expanse  of  plain. 
Long,  lean  arms  were  raised  and  pointed. 

A  chief  dismounted  and  strode  to  the  front  of  his  band. 
His  war-bonnet  trailed  behind  him;  there  were  unhealed 
scars  upon  his  bronze  body;  his  face  was  old,  full  of  fine, 
wavy  lines,  stern,  craggy,  and  inscrutable;  his  eyes  were 
dark,  arrowy  lightnings, 

They  beheld,  far  out  and  down  upon  the  plain,  a  long, 
low,  moving  object  leaving  a  trail  of  smoke.  It  was  a  train 
on  the  railroad.  It  came  from  the  east  and  crept  toward 
ihe  west.  The  chief  watched  it,  and  so  did  his  warriors. 
No  word  was  spoken,  no  sign  made,  no  face  changed. 

But  what  was  in  the  mind  and  the  heart  and  the  soul  of 
that  great  chief? 

This  beast  that  puffed  smoke  and  spat  fire  and  shrieked 
like  a  devil  of  an  alien  tribe;  that  split  the  silence  as  hide 
ously  as  the  long  track  split  the  once  smooth  plain;  that 
was  made  of  iron  and  wood;  this  thing  of  the  white  man's, 
coming  from  out  of  the  distance  where  the  Great  Spirit 
lifted  the  dawn,  meant  the  end  of  the  hunting-grounds  and 
the  doom  of  the  Indian.  Blood  had  flowed;  many  warriors 
lay  in  their  last  sleep  under  the  trees;  but  the  iron  monster 
that  belched  fire  had  gone  only  to  return  again.  Those 
white  men  were  many  as  the  needles  of  the  pines.  They 
fought  and  died,  but  always  others  came. 

This  chief  was  old  and  wise,  taught  by  sage  and  star  and 
mountain  and  wind  and  the  loneliness  of  the  prairie-land, 
He  recognized  a  superior  race,  but  not  a  nobler  one.  White 

408 


THE   U.    P.   TRAIL 

anen  would  glut  the  treasures  of  water  and  earth.  The 
Indian  had  been  born  to  hunt  his  meat,  to  repel  his  red 
foes,  to  watch  the  clouds  and  serve  his  gods.  But  these 
white  men  would  come  like  a  great  flight  of  grasshoppers 
to  cover  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  prairie-land.  The 
buffalo  would  roll  away,  like  a  dust-cloud,  in  the  distance, 
and  never  return.  No  meat  for  the  Indian — no  grass  for 
his  mustang — no  place  for  his  home.  The  Sioux  must 
fight  till  he  died  or  be  driven  back  into  waste  places 
where  grief  and  hardship  would  end  him. 

Red  and  dusky,  the  sun  was  setting  beyond  the  desert. 
The  old  chief  swept  aloft  his  arm,  and  then  in  his  accept 
ance  of  the  inevitable  bitterness  he  stood  in  magnificent 
austerity,  somber  as  death,  seeing  in  this  railroad  train 
creeping,  fading  into  the  ruddy  sunset,  a  symbol  of  the  des 
tiny  of  the  Indian — vanishing — vanishing — vanishing — • 


THE  END 


409 


Zane  Grey's  Thrilling  Novels 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

Zane  Grey  has  lived  the  rugged  life  he  writes  about  in  his 
books.  The  wild  fierce  blood  of  Indian  chiefs  flows  in  his 
veins.  All  his  stories  are  splendidly  American,  thrilling,  ro 
mantic,  packed  with  action  and  color. 


Lost  Wagon  Train 
The  Trail  Driver 
Code  of  the  West 
Robber's  Roost 
Drift  Fence 
Arizona  Ames 
Sunset  Pass 

The  Shepherd  of 
Guadaloupe 

Fighting  Caravans 
Wild  Horse  Mesa 
Nevada 
Forlorn  River 
Under  the  Tonto  Rim 
The  Vanishing  American 
The  Thundering  Herd 

Wanderer  of  the 
Wasteland 


Thunder  Mountain 
The  Call  of  the  Canyon 
The  Hash  Knife  Outfit 
To  the  Last  Man 
The  Mysterious  Rider 
The  Man  of  the  Forest 
The  U-P  Trail 
Wildfire 

The  Border  Legion 
The  Rainbow  Trail 
The  Heritage  of  the  Desert 
Riders  of  the  Purple  Sage 
Light  of  Western  Stars 
The  Lone  Star  Ranger 
Desert  Gold 
Betty  Zane 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 


Publishers 


NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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«*« 


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REC'D  LC 

LD21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476   JUL  1  0    uO  "11 


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P  2  9  1995 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


